


Loosed Reins

by AggressiveWhenStartled



Series: Arguing and Corpses [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Absolutely no dubcon, Arguing about feelings, BAMF!John, Explicit Consent, Fighting, John Watson's magical wang doesn't solve problems, John insists on adult communication in a relationship, M/M, Power Dynamics, Safer Sex, Sherlock is not asexual he's just extrapolating from a single data point, talking does
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-11 13:20:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AggressiveWhenStartled/pseuds/AggressiveWhenStartled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’ve stuffed an entire body into the fridge this time,” John accused. “What happened to the milk? The leftover risotto? My bloody jam?”</p><p>Sherlock opened his eyes at that. “As a doctor, it should be readily apparent to you that there is only a partial body in our refrigerator. Popular horror stories notwithstanding, it’s rare for an entire corpse to fit into one this size. I had to cut it up into several parts to pack it in, and there is still only seven eighths of it there.”</p><p>John stared at the ceiling. “That’s... not better.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【翻译】松绑](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154199) by [rosyrain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosyrain/pseuds/rosyrain)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to thank Whiffling for going through this whole fic and back-beta-ing for me! They are fantastic, and VERY patient with all my questions and confusion hahaha!
> 
> This fic now has a [Chinese translation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1154199) if you are interested! As of writing this notice, there is one chapter finished. How awesome is that??

Someone was always telling Sherlock Holmes what to do. 

Ever since he was a child, the orders tended to fall into two major categories, and he hadn’t decided which infuriated him the most. There were the big ones, like ‘Don’t let people know you’re so smart, it intimidates them,’ which made him livid. But then there was also the plethora of tiny, ridiculous details, like ‘Smile,’ and ‘Sit up straight,’ and ‘Don’t laugh at that,’ of which there were so many more that they might win over the bigger ones. 

Sherlock, being Sherlock, ignored them entirely and did whatever he pleased. The rest of the world could just endure or, if they couldn’t, simply bugger off. That way they wouldn’t need to be offended by him, and he needn’t be offended by them. Ideal.

Sherlock wasn’t sure, though, how he felt about things when John told him what to do. On the one hand, he really didn’t _want_ John to bugger off. On the other hand, the last time Sherlock had done what someone said simply because he didn’t want them to leave, it had exploded in his face.

So he tried to change only a few, very minor things, and then only if John became exceedingly angry over them. Last week, for example, John had been furious after he’d almost poisoned himself, even though it had clearly been his own fault; the arsenic had looked nothing _like_ sugar, he should have just _observed_. Did Sherlock need to hide all the soil from the flowerpots so John wouldn’t eat that, either? 

Sherlock had eventually agreed not to “put poisons into containers that had in the past or might eventually contain food.” Logically, however, it was an impossible task to predict the future; how could he know what idiot things John would do with food? The man was like a rather intelligent monkey at times. Sherlock had mentally amended the rule to, “Don’t allow John to find poison in containers that he habitually uses for food until he or I forget about it,” and it was working out fine.

Today was looking to be another rule-making day, if John’s sudden intake of breath in the kitchen was any indication.

“JESUS.” There was a loud slam, and then angry stomping. Sherlock didn’t open his eyes. John would bellow at him whether he opened them or not, and really, he had important things to consider.

John stood above Sherlock and waited for him to acknowledge his presence for thirteen seconds before giving in and shouting anyway. New record.

“You’ve stuffed an entire body into the fridge this time,” he accused. “What happened to the milk? The leftover risotto? My bloody jam?”

Sherlock did open his eyes at that. “As a doctor, it should be readily apparent to you that there is only a partial body in our refrigerator, John. Popular horror stories notwithstanding, it’s rare for an entire corpse to fit into one this size. I had to cut the body up into several parts to pack it in, and there is still only seven eighths of it there.”

John stared at the ceiling. “That’s not better.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’ll need to be more precise in your complaints, then. You yell at me for putting an entire corpse into the refrigerator, but when I point out that I didn’t, you’re still angry.” He tilted his head. “Perhaps you should work on your communication skills.”

“Let me _communicate_ to you, then, that the refrigerator is completely full of corpse, and there is no room for what we humans use the appliance for, which is food,” John told him, lips pressed into a thin, angry line. “This upsets me. I was planning to drink some tea and finish the risotto in preparation for a miserable afternoon wiping noses at the clinic, and now I can’t.”

“Not unless you plan to reach down the pipes to get it,” Sherlock agreed, unfazed. “I poured the milk and your beloved rice mixture down the sink, as I surmised they would spoil if left on the counter, and you hate when I leave food out to rot. See? I do take you into account when I do things. You could try thanking me.”

John looked like he wanted to strangle him.

“Are you going to hit me?” Sherlock asked with interest, sitting up.

“Am I—No, what, Jesus, no,” John managed, deflating. “I…just…leave me some space for actual food, please. On the top shelf, where nothing will drip into it.”

“I wrapped him in plastic,” Sherlock pointed out. “He’s unlikely to drip much.”

“Christ,” John muttered, hand over his face as he walked away. Sherlock shrugged and got back to work.

After about fifteen minutes, John finally recognized the important question and came running back in. 

“Hold on,” he shouted, skidding back around the corner, “where’d you put the other eighth of him, you mad wanker?”

***

Sherlock hadn’t always ignored people when they told him how to act, but it was so maddeningly difficult to follow every tiny demand. There were always other, secret rules no one would tell him about, that people insisted didn’t exist; and when he invariably slipped up and broke one of them, all his previous efforts suddenly became obsolete.

When he’d been young enough to keep trying anyway, Mycroft had told him that he was strong for getting up and doing it again every time. Sherlock had known he was weak for failing, and later decided that he was weak for wanting to try. If he were actually strong he wouldn’t care what other people thought of him; he wouldn’t let them make him change.

So finally he decided to stop being weak, and it had been his favorite decision to date. Well. Except for inviting John to move in with him. Other than that, though, best decision of his life.

Although sometimes he wondered; John could be frustratingly irrational.

“What. Jesus Christ. What.” Sherlock looked up from his work to see John standing in the doorway, home from the clinic apparently, his coat in hand and his mouth wide open. Sherlock adjusted the mask over his face and wiped the viscera from his safety glasses.

“I’d close my mouth if I were you,” Sherlock advised, getting back to work. “You wouldn’t want anything to fly into it. There’s always the chance of contracting kuru even though I haven’t spattered much of the brain yet.”

“You are… bloody blazing blue Christ, are you _beating seven eighths of a corpse with a hammer in our living room_?” 

Sherlock looked up again, surprised. Then he looked down at the mallet in his hand and the destroyed human remains at his feet. “Is this one of your questions that mean something else? Even with your limited simian intelligence my actions here are hardly opaque.”

John huffed a disbelieving laugh. “Yes, Sherlock, that was a question that meant something else entirely. That question meant, ‘It is completely unacceptable to beat human remains with a blunt instrument anywhere in our flat.’ It’s like when I say, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ and I mean, ‘Stop that right fucking now.’”

Sherlock gave a put upon sigh and rolled his eyes. “I put down plastic. I covered the entire flat in plastic, you _love_ plastic, you’re always nattering on about it when I do an experiment. So I put down plastic, and now you complain anyway.”

John looked pained. “I’m going back out,” he said to the ceiling, “and when I get back, this is all going to be gone and it will look exactly like it did when I left this morning.”

Sherlock looked interested. “How do you plan to accomplish that?” 

John pointed his finger at him. “ _You_ are going to do it, Sherlock, and you have about two hours to figure out how.”

“Well that’s just unreasonable,” Sherlock complained as John turned around and pulled his jacket back on. “There’s no way to replicate the dust patterns from before.”

“Don’t care!” John called from the stairs on his way out.

Sherlock stared down the steps for a moment, shrugged, and got back to work. They would have quite a row when John came back two hours later and found nothing changed, but really, it was surprising he thought anything would. 

Sherlock _had_ put down plastic, though, so perhaps John wasn’t entirely out of line thinking he could affect Sherlock’s actions.

Sherlock didn’t like how much he was changing for John, when he thought about it, which wasn’t all the time. He generally had a case on that demanded all his attention, and when he was high on a cloud of adrenaline and John’s praise it was easy to ignore a few compromises that slipped in. In his darker moods, he thought perhaps he should force him to move out, stop the slow slide towards normalcy that was becoming his daily life.

He had even tried a few times, but John Watson, with his leashed ferocity, was _fascinating_. 

John Watson was a wolf masquerading as a sheepdog, but he _acted_ like a sheepdog. He _liked_ acting like a sheepdog. And when he needed to protect something he considered his, and brought his wolf nature out to play, it always curled back up without a whimper when he was done with it.

Sherlock wanted to study him for hours, figure out everything that made him tick. Wanted to (metaphorically, never literally) cut him open and see how he worked. Sherlock had never been interested or, if he were honest, able to keep his furies under control. John had his so completely ordered that they sat and rolled over. 

Sherlock couldn’t keep him if he made him leave.

So Sherlock had slowly, so slowly he might not have noticed had he not noticed _everything_ , started to tidy things away without being asked. Started to eat at regular intervals and sleep in a real bed, often at night; started to hold his tongue when he knew it would upset John if he didn’t. 

It…frustrated him. But there were upsides. And it wasn’t as if he was changing for anyone else.

***

“Maybe try to tone down your deductions just a bit, Sherlock,” Lestrade told him the next day. John had grudgingly forgiven him for the night before, as he had finished his experiment and disposed of the remains _and the plastic_ by the time John had returned home. Sherlock told himself it was because he had collected all the data he needed and would have tidied it away in that time anyway. Sherlock was not fooling himself. As a result, he was feeling irritable. 

“I need your help,” Lestrade was saying, “I really do, but this witness is…well….”

“Seeing as Garvin Lewis would have been your main suspect instead of a witness without Sherlock, maybe he’d better take him as he is,” John interrupted, and Sherlock was mollified. Slightly. 

“I’m just saying there’s no reason to rile him up when you could just avoid it,” Lestrade continued, with the tone of a man who knew he was fighting a losing battle. “Why get into a fight when you could just….”

“Not be myself?” Sherlock finished, pulling off his gloves. “You seem to have an entire building here full of employees who are, in fact, not me, yet you’ve rung my mobile and asked for help anyway. Odd that you would want someone else. Perhaps you were looking for John?”

Lestrade looked meaningfully at John, and Sherlock sighed. “Good try, Lestrade, but John feels too uncomfortable with your previous request at the moment to rein me in on your behalf, even if he does secretly agree with you. He’ll certainly make the attempt to manage and control me at a later date, don’t worry.” John shot him a look, and Sherlock smiled, all teeth. “Come on then.”

John followed him down the hall. “I don’t try to manage you,” he said quietly. 

Sherlock stopped abruptly and stared down his nose when John stumbled to avoid running into him. He was uncomfortably close—people generally stepped back at this point. Their proximity also forced John to tip his neck back to look at him, which was never good on his ego.

Sherlock looked John over while he regrouped, vaguely annoyed that he stood his ground. 

“What would you call it then?” he asked, curious. “When you tell me where to put my experiments and when to play the violin? When you tell me not to deduce your alcoholic sister and to be nicer to Lestrade?”

“I call that insisting you treat things I care about with respect because we share most of them,” he protested, and Sherlock snorted and turned, heading back down the hall. John chased after him. “I call that not being a _complete_ doormat.”

“Hm. Interesting. So you had your hackles up when Lestrade wanted me to ‘tone down’ parts of me you like, but the parts you don’t like don’t count? Or was it just how he phrased it?”

John was quiet. “You know it’s not like that, Sherlock.”

“I know you think it’s not like that.” Sherlock stopped at the door and narrowed his eyes. “So those are about respecting you and your things. What about ‘timing’ and ‘Don’t show off’ and every time you say ‘Sherlock, you can’t just do that,’” he mimicked in a singsong. Then he spun on his heel and went in. 

“Dammit, Sherlock, I don’t—“ John cut off his protests when he saw Garvin, determined to be professional. Sherlock smiled. 

“Ah, Garvin. We’re here to speak with you about a murder. You know, the one that you didn’t commit, not the other four you think no one knows about.”

John covered his face with his hands as everything went downhill from there, until Garvin stood and lunged at the detective; Sherlock took a placid step back and John slammed all sixteen stone of his assailant directly into the concrete floor, twisted the man’s arm up behind him and ground a knee solidly into his back. John was more violent than he usually was about it, too—likely taking out his frustration from their argument.

“You bloody cunt!” Garvin screamed at him as the police rushed in. “I’ll fucking gut you when I see you again! Your little boyfriend won’t be around all the time!”

“Yes, very clever, threatening me in a room filled with officers of the law,” Sherlock drawled. “I’m quaking in my shoes.”

“You said he wasn’t a murderer,” Lestrade growled from behind the cursing criminal, trying to get the cuffs on as the man thrashed and bellowed.

“I said he wasn’t _the_ murderer,” Sherlock corrected over the din, bored. “You and John might both benefit from working on your communication skills.”

“We almost let him go before you stopped by!” Lestrade exclaimed, exasperated. Garvin got lucky and pulled an arm loose, almost catching Lestrade in the jaw. He slammed it back down against the table. “You can’t withhold evidence on the off chance you’ll want to piss me off with it later, Sherlock!”

“It was hardly so contrived,” Sherlock scoffed. “It was simply a matter of language. Even if I wanted to withhold fodder for upsetting you in case I become annoyed in the future, I can’t imagine I would keep any stockpiled, since you and your team infuriate me with such frequency.”

Lestrade raised his eyebrows at that. “You’re in a mood, aren’t you?”

Sherlock sneered and swept out. “Call me when you find the bodies in his apartment, Lestrade, and he feels more like discussing his friends’ hobbies.”

***

“John, you can’t just hit people until they tell you what they did. That is what we in the business call a forced confession,” Lestrade was yelling, “and it is _completely inadmissible_ in court.”

Garvin had eventually spilled to the Yard about his murderous friend, Artis Wrede, and Sherlock had barged right in as soon as he’d figured out where Wrede was spending his time. John had of course come along with him. After a spirited chase through the warehouse (it always seemed to be a warehouse), Wrede had jumped from behind a corner and tackled Sherlock, grinding his face uncomfortably into the pavement and pressing a gun in the back of his neck. Wrede had expected John to halt and listen to his threats; John hadn’t slowed a step and ran straight into him instead, plowing his good shoulder hard into the man’s solar plexus.

John had then, as Donovan might say, hit the suspect until candy came out, and he wasn’t even winded. Sherlock was thrilled and had completely forgiven him for the incident with the seven eighths of a cadaver. 

“So question him again later, when he’s safely on the other side of a wall from John,” Sherlock told Lestrade, feigning disinterest. “We already caught you a murderer, now we have to get a useful confession out of him as well? Isn’t there any part of your job that you actually do?”

John let loose a snort, then looked embarrassed.

“Oh for god’s sake,” Lestrade muttered. 

“Need I tie your laces for you as well? What about your fringe? It wants trimming,” Sherlock continued. John tried to glare at him and failed.

“Stop it Sherlock, this is a crime scene and I just assaulted a man,” John managed, starting to giggle. “Greg is _right here_ , don’t make me start laughing!” 

“You beat him senseless, he’s missing teeth,” Lestrade said angrily “Bloody right you shouldn’t be laughing!”

“Come now, Lestrade, it was entirely self defense.” Sherlock waved him off with considerable nonchalance. “John was forced to protect me.”

“Oh yeah? Kept bleeding aggressively at you, did he?”

John dropped his face into his hands and turned red, shoulders shaking, and Sherlock couldn’t bite back a grin. “He was certainly doing a great deal of damage to John’s knuckles.”

John started snorting and tried desperately to quell it. Lestrade threw up his hands, done with them. “I suppose I should be happy he didn’t fall out of the window, yeah? Fine, get out before I start to do my job as a police officer and arrest you both for violent vigilantism. And John,” he continued, “get a bloody hold on yourself next time. We need you out of jail to keep this madman in line, or as close as he gets.”

John’s giggles trailed off and he looked uncomfortable, and Sherlock’s grin disappeared. He inclined his head, then walked off without a word, leaving John to run after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, future chapters will have sex in them I promise, but in this chapter I'm sorry there is only arguing and corpses.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be updating every week on Sunday. I might miss next week (outside influences), but generally I try to update on a schedule!

Sherlock sat in angry silence the entire taxi ride home, which gave John time to work up his own fairly decent angry froth on top of his guilt. Sherlock thought that perhaps they should have finished the argument at the crime scene instead, before both of them had stewed long enough to make it a huge self-righteous explosion, but John hated emotional scenes in public. Another change Sherlock had made, and now they were both ready for a fight. 

That rarely went well. The intelligent thing was to leave it for the morning, and so he altered his behavior for John yet again and headed for his bedroom.

“Oh, you’re just going to leave it then, stalk off to your room and ignore me?”

Sherlock kept his face blank when he turned to look at John. “You plan to yell at me and set more boundaries, more rules for me to follow, and I am going to yell at you and tell you what to do with them, most likely quite rudely. You will be upset, I will be upset, and nothing will be better. I can’t imagine anything I wish to do less, so I’m going to bed instead. Goodnight.” He turned.

“Don’t you fucking walk away from me!” John slammed a hand down on the kitchen table, rattling the Pyrex glassware Sherlock had left there. His shoulders were up, his fists were clenched, and his was face tense. His eyes refused to land on Sherlock.

Oh.

John really _was_ in a froth. It should have been obvious, but Sherlock had been distracted. 

John wasn’t just angry; he was hurt. 

“I don’t think a little compromise from you, a little consideration, is that much to ask, Sherlock! I’m not _controlling_ you when I expect you not to throw away my things because they’re in your way or bring my sister to tears in front of me! I’m not _managing_ you when I try to make dealing with other people easier, especially when it keeps you out of jail or keeps a knife out of your gut! I’m being your bloody _partner_ when I do that, I’m doing the things you won’t and fixing problems you can’t!”

Sherlock turned back to him, slowly, but then slammed his bedroom door shut with such sudden ferocity that John jumped. “In case you have forgotten, I functioned _perfectly well_ before you moved in John,” he hissed, his voice gone low and dangerous, “and while I do not wish for you to leave, I hardly _need_ you to smooth my wake. I certainly don’t require your fluttering about to soothe the ruffled feathers I leave. What do I care about how a mob of idiots feel about me?”

“Don’t want me to leave? I bet you don’t!” John laughed, and Sherlock’s fists clenched. “Who would clean up after you? Who would notice the bills and make sure you ate and answer your damn mobile when you’re too busy with your important, lofty deductions to reach into your own goddamned pocket?”

“ _I don’t need cleaning up after_!” Sherlock shouted. “You clean up for _you_ , not for _me_! Don’t pretend you’re doing me a favor by disturbing my work and destroying my carefully organized files because ‘On the floor isn’t organized, Sherlock’! But I put up with you doing it and I put up with your shared condescending smiles behind my back with the rest of your small-minded kin. I put up with you poking food at me whenever _you_ get hungry, haranguing me about sleeping whenever _you_ are tired! Don’t pretend it’s all for me, John Watson.”

“You put up with it, do you? Funny, I never classified arguments and flouncing tantrums as ‘putting up’ with things! I never noticed you were being _so considerate_ when you insult my intelligence at every opportunity and complain about everything I do! I compromise on everything around you, Sherlock. Hell, I _compromise_ everything for you! I can’t keep a girlfriend, I can barely keep a job, and I certainly can’t spend time with any other friends!”

“You don’t _have_ any other friends!” Sherlock snapped, and knew it was a mistake even as it came out of his mouth. His hands twitched towards his lips, but he held them as steady as he could. He would not cover his mouth like a child who’d repeated profanity to his mother, no matter how awful his words had been.

John looked shocked, hurt, and sad—then furious. “And whose bloody fault is that?” he bellowed. “Every time I try to meet one for a pint something comes up and you desperately need me to fetch something three metres away!”

Sherlock knew he needed to shut up, apologize, _stop talking_ , but it all came out anyway. He had lost his own reins. “You never had any friends!” he shouted, stalking forward and crowding John back. Only John didn’t let him; he stood his ground, which brought them close, incredibly close, leaning into each other despite the level of their voices. “You aren’t normal, John Watson, as much as you pretend you are, and you make acquaintances, not friends. You wouldn’t come home to fetch my things if you actually wanted to stay where you were; you’re much too stubborn. You come because you want to, because normal people _bore you too_! Everything I ‘make’ you do is what you want to do anyway, don’t blame that on _me_.”

“I want to? I _want_ to alienate every woman I date, I _want_ to ruin every part of my life that isn’t directly tied to you? I _want_ to give in on _everything_ and live in a madhouse with a man who steals my things and dips them in acid to see what they do? A man who refuses to meet me halfway on anything, who sees everything I do for him as controlling and resents me for making sure he doesn’t end up dead on the street every day?” 

Sherlock could barely see, he was so livid. He was bruising his palms keeping them clenched at his sides, and bent at the waist trying to hold back from going for John’s throat. His voice dropped to a low whisper.

“If you don’t want it, then why are you still here?” he breathed, and John looked like he’d been slapped. 

They stood in silence.

“Maybe I shouldn’t be,” John said softly after a moment. “Maybe I should take a hint.”

“No,” Sherlock blurted, and felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. He should have gone straight into his room at the start of the evening. This was a disaster. “Wait. No. I didn’t mean that,” he tried desperately.

John shook his head—curt, final. Tired. He rubbed a tired hand over his eyes. “No, Sherlock, I’m pretty sure you mean everything you say.” He sighed, the anger gone already—the wolf curled back up, leaving nothing but the hurt behind. Sherlock’s chest constricted, making it hard to breathe.

“I didn’t mean I wanted you to leave. I would never mean that,” Sherlock rasped.

“Bullshit,” John told him. “You’ll love it. You never do anything I say anyway, but if I’m gone you won’t have to listen to me complain about it, either.”

“Are you simple?” Sherlock argued, bewildered. “I do _everything_ you say, it’s _infuriating_ , if I didn’t you _would_ leave and so I am _constantly_ following your ridiculous rules!” Sherlock laughed and turned away, hands finally leaving his sides and running through his hair. “I sleep when you tell me to, I eat when you tell me to, I apologize because you sulk if I don’t, I bite my tongue and put down plastic and leave a shelf in the refrigerator and hem myself in because you will leave if I don’t, and you don’t even see it! You ask and ask and I change and change and you don’t even recognize it, and then you are furious at me for _not doing more_.”

John looked exhausted. “That’s not—“

“Our clients look at _you_ when I do my work, the police look at _you_ when I do something they don’t like, I am compromising _all I can_ and everyone _knows_ it! Do you know who else everyone used to turn to when they wished I would behave differently?”

“I don’t—“

“They looked at _Mycroft_. Make a deduction, John, I’m sure even your mind can manage it; how have I reacted to _him_? Yet here I remain, living with you, working with you, because you are more important than not allowing weak, feeble idiots change me into something more palatable, when my own brother was not. _If that is not compromising for you, for God’s sake what is?_ ”

John was silent, and after they stood staring at each other for a few more minutes Sherlock turned, ducked into his room and shut the door with a bang.

***

When Sherlock emerged the following morning, having spent the entire night violently attacking his belongings and wringing horrible sounds out of his violin in a fuming rage, he was pleased but surprised to find John still in residence.

John was sitting at the table with a cold mug of tea in front of him, staring into it instead of drinking. He had clearly been waiting. Sherlock momentarily considered turning right back around out of spite, but quelled the thought and sat opposite.

“Do you want me to stop?” John asked him, straightforward as always. Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but John cut him off. “Not the parts about me. I am definitely in the right when I tell you how you’re allowed to treat me, and if you don’t like it, then _you_ can leave.” 

Sherlock’s stomach hurt, briefly, but John moved on quickly. “I mean do you want me to stop telling you things are ‘not good.’ Stop trying to smooth things over with other people. Don’t just say yes without thinking, especially since I’ll have to take sides against you sometimes if you do; when you insult my date, Sherlock, I’m going to have to tell you off for it instead of telling you to stop. There are situations when I can’t just say ‘I’m not getting into it’.”

“You could stop dating,” Sherlock pointed out.

John snorted. “Yeah, no. And that doesn’t solve the problem; it just sidesteps one part of it. I can’t take your side when you’re in the wrong, Sherlock.”

“I thought that was what devotion was,” Sherlock blurted, then clamped his lips shut. Stupid. _Stupid_.

John gave him a long look, but shook his head. “It’s not,” he said simply, and left it at that. He sighed. “Do you want me to stop? I think I help and I think you know that. I think it makes your work easier and I think it’s why you keep me around.”

“That is not,” Sherlock bit off, “why I keep you around.” John waited, but Sherlock didn’t elaborate. Instead he looked away and John nodded.

“Alright, one of the reasons, then.” 

Sherlock was silent. If he opened his mouth he wasn’t sure what would come out, so instead he only nodded sharply, eyes still averted. The worst part was that John was right, it _did_ make everything easier. Sherlock was letting the world change him and he didn’t want to, but it made things so much simpler when he did. 

John let out a long breath, took a sip of his cold tea to cover the silence, and said, “Well. Think about it. I mean,” he grinned ruefully. “Please think about it. In the meantime, I’ll try to avoid it. Yeah?”

“Agreed,” Sherlock replied, staring at the table, and John nodded amiably and stood to get ready for work.

***

“I know what you’re thinking,” John told him quietly the next day, another witness/suspect sobbing ahead of them, clutching a potted ornamental grass to her chest while Lestrade tried to calm her down enough to speak. She’d walked in on the body when she was installing the grasses in a local office building, had fallen into hysterics far before the police had shown up, and was clearly not calming down anytime soon. “It’s a terrible idea. You can terrorize her and get an honest answer out, but that’s all you’ll ever get from her and everyone on scene is going to hate you for it.”

Sherlock turned to glare at him. The murder was interestingly similar to the previous one, even though Sherlock was _certain_ he had identified the correct killer. He hadn’t time to deal with the messy, damp emotions of people he didn’t care in the least about. “You can’t know what I was going to do. And I thought you’d decided to stop that.”

“You’re an expert on nearly everything, but I’m an expert on Sherlock Holmes,” John told him placidly “I know exactly what you’re thinking, and it’s a really terrible idea. Anyway, I said I was going to avoid telling you what to do, not that I was going to stop being your friend and partner. I’m giving you data; you can do whatever you like. But being a dick will make her stop talking and make you enemies.”

Sherlock cocked his head, wary. “I had assumed the point of stopping was to prove to me what a bumbling terror I would become once you had swept the imagined miracle crutch of your emotional insight away, in the hopes I would realize the error of my ways and humbly beg for your interference again. Was I wrong?”

John rolled his eyes. “I’m not trying for points, Sherlock. Relationships based on manipulation and being right all the time don’t work out very well, no matter what you see on those awful daytime telly shows you like to shout at.”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted. “I _am_ right all the time,” he lied outright, and John laughed.

“Good job I don’t need to be then, isn’t it?” He put his hands in his pockets and smiled at Sherlock, who was still rifling through the drawer for the word “relationship” in his mind palace. Technically, logically, one could use it for friendships, colleagues, and workmates; but realistically, when someone said “We have a relationship,” they meant something else. Didn’t they?

Sherlock gave John a hard look, then stalked towards the woman.

He didn’t make her break into tears for at least ten minutes longer than he had originally planned. When Lestrade bellowed at him about it later and turned an exasperated look to John, Sherlock twitched, but John just raised his hands and said, “Don’t look at me, _I_ didn’t make your witness cry.”

“But you’re the only one this disaster listens to,” Lestrade complained. Sherlock bristled, but John just shrugged and took out his mobile, apparently finished with the conversation.

Lestrade grimaced. “Are you punishing me for something? Am I still in trouble for the Wrede case?

“Look,” John said, not glancing up, “if you don’t want Sherlock to make your emotional witnesses cry, and every time you bring him to speak to one he makes them cry, then don’t bring him in and they won’t cry.”

“What I want is for Sherlock to question my witnesses and not make them cry.” Lestrade told him, unimpressed. “Got a solution to that?”

“I’ve told you before that I’m not your sniffer dog, Lestrade,” Sherlock interrupted, “and John is certainly not my handler. You can’t simply give him training points and expect me to heel the next time you check in.”

Lestrade gave them both a look.

“Ah,” he said, “it’s not about me, then. Having a bit of a domestic, are we?”

John looked up, stern, and Sherlock gave a frustrated groan and stalked away.

***

“John,” Sherlock said later that night, looming awkwardly over his flatmate.

John looked up from his paper, tea mug halfway to his mouth. “Hm?”

“I’m. You. It.” Sherlock blew out the breath he was holding, turned back around, went into his bedroom, and closed the door.

John stared after him, tea forgotten, mouth slack with bewilderment.

The door reopened and Sherlock swept back into the living room, planted his feet solidly in front of his confused flatmate, and said, “Today. What you said to Lestrade. That was good. Thank you.”

It was fortunate, Sherlock thought with annoyance, that John hadn’t taken that sip of tea after all; he would have spit it directly at Sherlock when he burst out laughing. Sherlock would definitely have been even more irate covered in saliva and hot tea.

“If you take thanks like this, John, I shall be certain not to do it again,” Sherlock said peevishly as John continued to giggle uncontrollably, splashing his drink where he set it clumsily on the table and curling over on himself helplessly. 

“No, no, hold on,” John wheezed, holding a hand out to Sherlock and flapping it at him ineffectually. “I’m sorry, I’m stopping, I’m….” He looked up at Sherlock’s face, trailed off, and went back into whoops again. 

Sherlock gave his best cold stare and turned to sweep back out again.

“No! Wait, I’m really sorry, I promise,” John managed, grasping Sherlock’s arm to stop him. “It was all the buildup. It was unexpected.” John was doubled over, wiping away tears in his eyes, still laughing softly, and Sherlock was not impressed at all. Finally John took a deep breath and stood up straight, open smile on his face, and Sherlock unwound slightly. 

John brought a hand up to grasp the back of his head, pulled him stiffly down to lean their brows together, and said, “You were right. You absolutely take me for granted, and I’m still going to yell when you dip my shoes in human blood, but I shouldn’t act like your babysitter around everyone else. Sorry.” Then he released his grip, chucked Sherlock on the arm, sat back down and opened his newspaper again, still smiling.

Sherlock stared at him.

“What?” John asked belatedly, looking back up at him. “Have I got something on my face?”

Sherlock didn’t reply, and instead spun around and stalked into the kitchen, where he began making a ruckus with pans and breaking china.

“Don’t get anything on the scones,” John called after him absently, “Mrs Hudson just made them today. And don’t break any of my mugs this time.”

Sherlock ignored him, and John shrugged and took a sip of his tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So when I started on chapter three I couldn't remember what the overall plotline was supposed to be, so I looked in the planning document I made for this fic. It read:
> 
>   * Sherlock and John fight
>   * Sherlock and John make up and they both change
>   * Then they make out
> 

> 
> THANKS, PAST ME. That's pretty much every Johnlock fic ever. PAST ME YOU ARE USELESS. This time I am adding way more detail when I plan it over again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I actually managed to get it posted on time! Yay me! The chapters have, uh, expanded. Sorry.

In every case, every puzzle, there was that _click_ , when all the evidence was suddenly so obvious, so clear, that Sherlock became frankly appalled that it had taken him so long to figure it out. The final piece would lock into place and everything else would just snap together perfectly, all the little bits of data that he had gathered without realizing their importance coalescing into a flawless whole. 

This time, the final piece was the discussion the week previous, and suddenly Sherlock realized that John touched him _all the time_.

Why had it taken him so long to realize it? Sherlock had absolutely no sense of boundaries; it had been something he’d needed to learn with the same exacting care he learned anything he needed for the work. Still, he should have noticed sooner that John _did_ have boundaries; in fact, John had _amazingly_ wide boundaries. He simply never had them when Sherlock was the one testing them.

“I don’t want to sleep with you,” Sherlock told John sternly, glaring at him from the sofa. 

John had just settled into his chair with a small plate of biscuits and a book, and barely glanced up. “I’ll cross shagging my insane flatmate off my to do list, then,” he replied, not really paying attention. 

Sherlock frowned. “You aren’t taking me seriously,” he accused, sitting up. 

Sherlock had been through this before. These innocuous touches came at a slow creep, more and more often, after which the slightly more… invasive touching started. Gradually. Incrementally. He had been vaguely curious the first time around; he wasn’t anymore. But he would want John to stay, he would want him to be happy, so Sherlock would end up telling himself it probably wouldn’t be _so_ bad, just as he had the first time around.

He would be wrong again.

It would be uncomfortable and boring, and as skilled as Sherlock was at lying, John would eventually realize and then get angry at _Sherlock_ , which would be completely unfair, but entirely to be expected; John was unfortunately very much like normal people in certain ways. He would leave regardless of what Sherlock promised to do for him, and until then Sherlock would be bored, sore, and distantly irritated with the mess.

Sherlock still didn’t understand how “I will have sex with you even when I don’t want it because I want you to stay with me” was not seen as the selfless, giving gesture it _clearly_ was, but he couldn’t change that. He could, however, change the direction of this train wreck waiting to happen. 

John remained completely unconcerned, eyes still on his book. “It’s not really new information, Sherlock; you told me you were married to your work almost as soon as we met. Anyway, since I’m not gay, it’s not an issue. So, no,” he explained, taking another biscuit, “I’m not exactly leaping out of my chair in shock.”

Sherlock snorted, diverted from his original point. “Please. Must I to lead you by the hand? You are _clearly_ bisexual.”

John paused mid-chew. “You think you’ve turned me gay,” he hazarded, vaguely annoyed. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be ridiculous, no matter how remarkable I am, I can’t turn someone homosexual,” Sherlock said primly. “You have been attracted to men since puberty at the latest. You must have noticed by now, you’ve had well over twenty years to observe, and you do tend to pay an inordinate amount of attention to sex. More likely you’re already aware and merely lying about it.”

John tipped his head back, hand going to his face again. “You are such a complete dick,” he groaned. “At least you’ve avoided doing this in front of anyone. ‘I don’t want to sleep with you, also you are gay’ generally implies that some sort of overture on my part has been made. People talk enough as it is.”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, a move that generally raised John’s blood pressure but came too naturally to be avoided. “Everyone we know already believes we’re shagging; you can’t be concerned about accidentally outing yourself. If you’re trying to hide that you find me attractive, you’re not doing a very good job of it.”

“You should come with a warning label,” John told him, pointing an accusing finger. “Everyone and their dog knows you’re attractive. Celibate recluse monks in Tibet know you’re attractive. It comes with being insanely attractive. It doesn’t make me gay to notice it.”

“No, you’re entirely correct,” Sherlock agreed, “I should have been more clear. The part where you are clearly aroused when you notice my attractiveness is what makes you bisexual.”

John dropped his face into his hands, headache clearly blooming. “Fine. Whatever. I won’t have sex with you. Got it.”

“I’m simply not at all interested in sexual intercourse,” Sherlock explained, “and since you have sex with so many people it shouldn’t be much of a hardship to avoid having it with me.”

“Did you just call me a slag?” John asked, dazed. 

Sherlock waved a hand at him, dismissive. “Of course not, I merely noted that you have many and varied sexual partners, and that you do not seem to be overly selective about them.”

“You just called me a slag,” John decided.

“I wouldn’t have brought it up again,” Sherlock continued, “but you tend to touch me rather a lot. Not sexually, that I’ve noticed, although I suppose you could have some strange enthusiasm that would make things like chucking me in the arm arousing. You haven’t responded physically to them, though, so I assume not.”

“Oh my god you’re still talking.” John looked ready to throw himself out the window to escape. 

Sherlock shared his horror, honestly, but he couldn’t compel his mouth to stop. He rarely made the attempt, so he hadn’t much practice. He tried to pull back around to the matter at hand. “In any event, rest assured that while I do anything you say, I will not sleep with you merely because you wish it.”

John stared at him, set his book aside entirely, and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “One: you rarely do what I tell you to. I told you to get the pickled rats out of the kitchen sink two full days ago because they have started smelling even worse than when they first appeared. I told you to ferret out all the dishes you’ve hidden away in your room about a week back because we’re down to only two cups and a soupspoon left in the kitchen. I told you to clear off the kitchen table just twenty minutes past because I had originally planned on having my tea there.”

“Incomplete evidence,” Sherlock scoffed, “I simply haven’t done those _yet_.”

“Bullshit,” John replied, “you’re waiting for me to get fed up and do it for you.”

“Convincing another to perform an action is still completing the action.”

“I’ve argued that before. When I was seven.” John clasped his fingers together. “But fine. Two: I’m not sure whether to be angry or worried that you think I will order you into my bed and expect you to go despite clearly not being interested.” 

“I know how these things go,” Sherlock sniffed, “I’m not entirely inexperienced.”

“Right,” John said, “I think I’ve settled on worried.” 

“Don’t be,” Sherlock snapped.

“Alright,” John said, “fine.” He sounded exhausted and strained, which usually meant he thought Sherlock was being very upsetting and worrying, but also fond, which meant he felt Sherlock was being charmingly strange. This was the difficulty in reading John Watson; his emotions were all over the place. “I’ll stop touching you and I won’t try to bully you into sleeping with me.”

“No, the touching is fine,” Sherlock corrected, “I have no qualms with that. You should feel free to do it as much as you like.”

John gave him a hard look, as if Sherlock was the difficult one to figure out. “I’m…well. Okay, now I’m not sure what you’re saying anymore.” 

Sherlock gave John his best supercilious ‘how can you be so dense’ glower and stalked away. 

***

Victor had been similar to John in a few very worrying ways: he had been the first person to truly enjoy Sherlock’s company, he told Sherlock he was fantastic, and Sherlock had done things he hadn’t particularly wanted to do in order to please him and keep him nearby.

The similarities ended there, though; Victor had controlled Sherlock with little disappointed looks, tiny passive aggressive jabs, sad pronouncements. Sherlock liked John’s way of doing it much better, almost as much more as he liked John. Sherlock had liked the things Victor had said and done, but John was fascinating and enjoyable to be around completely independently of these traits. 

And John Watson was many things, but he was not passive aggressive.

“You’ve covered my chair with something’s liver and hung your own chair from the ceiling; you don’t get to take up the entire sofa as well. Budge up.”

Sherlock pouted. “I put down plastic,” he pointed out. 

“You and your plastic,” John groaned. “While I’m very pleased you don’t do these things _without_ it anymore, it doesn’t automatically absolve you of any frustration you cause. Move, or I will move you.”

John had been giving him a wide berth: going around the opposite side of the table, setting his tea down instead of handing it to him, avoiding anything but the briefest moments of eye contact. Sherlock didn’t like it. He hadn’t minded it when Victor had touched him, but he _liked_ it when John did. He hadn’t realized how much until John had suddenly stopped, despite Sherlock having been quite clear about not wanting him to discontinue it.

“So move me,” he retorted, watching John carefully as he tensed, then (finally) gave Sherlock a long look.

“Sherlock,” John said warningly. “Cut it out.”

Sherlock wordlessly moved up on the sofa, and John sat down as far from him as he could get. Then Sherlock dropped his feet back across John’s lap and pretended to read his science journal again. 

“Sherlock.” John was quiet, stiff. “What are you doing?”

“I’m reading,” Sherlock lied, cross. “Or attempting to, anyway, despite your incessant complaining and skittish jumping at my every move.”

John’s voice stayed wary and deliberate. “Sherlock, please put down the journal. You’re probably being completely obvious, I know, but I’m not as clever as you are and you’re confusing me.”

Sherlock folded the papers down so he could stare at his flatmate over them. “I said I didn’t want to sleep with you, not that I wanted you to flee in mortal terror of accidentally brushing past me.”

John gestured to Sherlock’s long legs stretched across his. “This is not brushing against you in the kitchen.”

Sherlock snorted, annoyed. “You like touching me or you wouldn’t do it. You need physical proximity or you feel lonely, and then you leave more often to find one of your interchangeable women to touch instead. It makes infinitely more sense to simply fulfill that need here and avoid the addition of more intrusive rabble into our flat than is absolutely necessary for your mental health.”

John blinked. “I am much more confused now. Also much less likely to touch you, thanks. I thought you were just telling me last night you didn’t want that? Now you’re telling me…what? You want cuddles?”

Sherlock shoved him with his foot, hard, and John gave an annoyed ‘oof’ and shoved him back. “I specifically told you I didn’t mind you touching me,” Sherlock reminded him. “I don’t know why you’re having this crisis. It amazes me what simple requests snag up that tiny mind of yours.”

John gave him an exasperated look. “So you want me to touch you more so I don’t sleep around. Purely logical. All for my benefit. Of course. Right. How selfless of you.”

“I can’t imagine what you’re implying,” Sherlock sniffed.

“Jesus.” John rolled his eyes, but rested his arms on Sherlock’s shins when he picked up his newspaper.

***

“Not my _ear_ , Sherlock,” John complained, swatting Sherlock away and rubbing his ear like it itched. 

John had stopped warily circling as far from Sherlock as he could get, but he still put up completely illogical roadblocks for unfathomable reasons. 

“Stop that,” John would say as he shoved Sherlock over on the chair enough for him to get up. “You can’t just come over and sit on me.”

And:

“ _Are you kidding me_ , get the hell out of the bathroom!”

And even:

“I don’t care what you’ve done to your bed. You are not sleeping in mine, regardless of how much poison ivy you’ve accidentally ground into your sheets.” 

It was hugely irritating, especially since _John_ seemed to be getting increasingly upset as time went by, which made no sense at all.

John finally exploded a week later. “For a literal-minded dick constantly telling me to communicate better, you certainly seem to love your mixed messages,” he yelled.

“For a man who somehow managed to complete a medical degree,” Sherlock yelled back, “you certainly have difficulty with simple directions given in plain English!”

“ _What the hell do you want from me?_ ” John shouted. “Are you _testing_ me? Are you _experimenting_ on me? What is going on here?”

“I’ve already told you countless times, when is it going to sink into your feeble little collection of neurons that touching is fine, as long as it’s not with your prick!”

“You don’t need to touch my goddamn prick to give me an erection, Sherlock!” John bellowed. “Your tongue anywhere on my body is pretty much going to accomplish that, _especially_ when you nuzzle up behind me to do it!”

“I don’t give two shakes about your erect penis, John, as long as you don’t tell me to put it into my arse!” Sherlock roared back, and John went completely red in the face. 

“Jesus, Sherlock,” he moaned, hands rubbing his temples. “I don’t know where you got the idea that friends do this kind of thing, since you study human interaction like some people study monkeys, but this is the kind of touching people do in a relationship, which you keep telling me you don’t want with me.”

“You implied we were in a relationship more that two weeks ago,” Sherlock accused. “Don’t tell me I’m sending mixed messages. I never said I didn’t want one, I said I didn’t want you to stick me with your penis. As long as your erectile tissue stays safely in your clothes, I don’t have a problem with it in the least. It’s when it’s taken out and I’m expected to do something with it that I dislike it.“

“Right, thanks, got it,” John managed, flushing still redder. “You have succeeded in making me regret I brought this up.”

“You’re getting an erection now, and see how unconcerned I am with it?” Sherlock pointed out helpfully. “I don’t mind at all.”

“Oh, yes, thank you for your permission to have functioning genitals,” John muttered. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s certainly completely unnecessary for me, but you seemed to have problems understanding our situation.”

John rounded on him, fingers twitching and looking as though they wanted to close around the detective’s throat. “See, Sherlock, it’s _like_ you’re agreeing with me but you’re really, really not.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, considering. “You are clearly irritable because of the buildup of sexual tension; you should probably have a wank in the shower and come back to discuss things more reasonably. I don’t mind if you think about me.”

“I,” John said. “You. _Christ_.” He nearly pulled out twin handfuls of his own hair, then stomped over to the door, yanked on his jacket and clattered down the stairs.

“Public masturbation is generally frowned upon,” Sherlock called down the steps after him, but all he got in reply was a solid slam of the front door closing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there you go! Please let me know what you liked and what I can improve on!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little early again this time. :)

When John came home early the next morning, Sherlock was so pleased he abandoned his latest experiment for an entire _thirteen seconds_ to smile at him.

John was, quite unfairly, not impressed. He blew out the breath he’d been holding, hung up his coat, then sat down opposite Sherlock at the table. He laced his fingers together and stared over the science equipment between them.

“So,” John said.

“My penis,” John said.

“Christ,” John finished.

“Oh well done,” Sherlock replied, eyebrows up, “you’ll be graduating to full sentences any day now.”

“Shut up,” John managed. “Just… Hold on. Look.” He opened his mouth, closed it, then visibly steeled himself. “Yes. Okay. Yes.”

Sherlock just stared back at him.

“Yes. I’m up for whatever this,” John waved his hands between the two of them, “is. Fine.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and frowned. “I was under the impression that ‘yes lets’ comes at the beginning of a relationship, generally, rather than several years in.”

John gave him the look that said he clearly thought Sherlock was not as clever as he looked, which was rich, since John seemed unable to use his big boy words at the moment. “This _is_ the start. I want to have a romantic relationship with you, if that’s what you’re interested in. Sans any part you don’t like. I’m on board.”

Sherlock stilled, a sudden rush of warmth flooding his chest for no logical reason whatsoever. His pulse had suddenly elevated, so perhaps that was it. “Right. Well. Good.” Oh god, it was _catching_.

“Good.” John took another deep breath. “Right. In that case, there are some things we should discuss first—“

“Oh for God’s sake,” Sherlock exclaimed, aggravated, “you want to talk about this still _more_? We had a week-long argument over it and that’s _not enough_?”

“First of all,” John continued, ignoring him, “what, exactly, is off limits?”

Annoying as his constant need to discuss feelings was, John _was_ rather fetching when he blushed. Sherlock rolled his eyes and said “Sex. Sex is off the table. No sex. I don’t want to have sex. Don’t tell me to, I won’t do it, I don’t want any sex.”

“Yes, got that, thanks,” John rolled his own eyes. “What do you mean by ‘sex’?”

From the wry look John then gave him, his own face was eloquent. “You do remember what you’ve been doing with all those girlfriends, yes, John? I’m assuming it wasn’t _actually_ scrabble,” Sherlock said pityingly. 

“Yes, thank you,” John retorted, mouth quirking to the side, “I don’t delete regular human interactions and things like my closest co-workers names, don’t get on my case. What happens when you sidle up behind me and lick my ear again, and I don’t stop you? You don’t care if I get an erection, fine. Is kissing off the table? What if my erection brushes against you accidentally, is that a problem? _I have no idea what is okay or not_.”

Sherlock heaved a sigh and went back to work. “Those are both fine. I’ll tell you if you do something I don’t like.”

“Absolutely not,” John returned, firm. “I am not running a bad touch Easter egg hunt with our relationship. I’m going to do something wrong, you’ll get upset and uncomfortable, and I’ll feel awful.”

Sherlock gave an exasperated huff. “I hardly think you can accidentally put your prick in my mouth or up my arse, thank you.”

John looked considering. “You think sex means penetration.”

“I’m finished with this conversation,” Sherlock decided, “It’s always the same conversation, and I always say the same thing, and you always ignore me and ask again.” He scooped up his things, went into his room, and shut the door.

***

“Get up; Lestrade called.”

John groaned into his pillow. Sherlock paused, watching his new-minted boyfriend (ugh, such a demeaning word, but vaguely satisfying to use) twist and stretch in the sheets, then try to go back to sleep. It was oddly endearing, but really, _murders_.

“Up. Now. Crime scene,” he explained, using small words on the off chance that they would get through. 

“Now?” John managed, muzzy, and lifted his head from the bedding. His hair had apparently not yet reached consensus on which direction it all wanted to go in, and there was a crease down his cheek from the sheets.

“Now. Up.” Sherlock repeated in what he hoped was a supportive, encouraging way.

John gave another breathy groan and flopped back down.

“There’s a man with a gun downstairs,” Sherlock added. 

John was immediately fully awake on his feet, and only a moment later had his firearm loaded and in his hands. 

So _that_ was where he’d been hiding the SIG. Clever. Sherlock grinned and said brightly, “I lied about the man downstairs, but now that you’re up, get dressed and we’ll head downtown.” Then he turned on his heel, and left.

***

“Hello Freak,” Sally greeted them when they got to the crime scene, and Sherlock was almost too pleased with his new situation with John to respond.

Almost. He was rubbish at holding back.

“Sally, I am repeatedly assured that I have many and varied anti-social qualities, it can’t be _that_ difficult to come up with something new. Perhaps you’re too busy scheming ideas to make Anderson jealous? The love bite you think you’ve covered for work is not, in fact, hidden.”

“I’m not—“

“He’s not leaving his wife, Sally.” Sherlock told her briskly, “she’s far too forgiving.”.

Sally looked like she wanted to _kill him_. “ _I know that_.”

“Quit it,” Lestrade barked, “I’d like at least one of us to pay attention to _the murder_ here.” He pointed at the body, too similar to the recent ones they’d arrested Wrede for to be a coincidence, and Sherlock knelt and leaned in.

“I’m paying attention,” John piped up cheerfully. Sherlock felt his mouth twitch into a quick smile.

“No one cares about you,” Anderson snapped, “not since you stopped helping contain your feral psychopath here. Not sure why you’re around now.”

“Clearly for my rugged good looks and ability to pick up the medical slack when you’re on duty,” John replied sunnily. 

Sherlock snorted, reaching into his pockets for disposable gloves. “Rest assured, John is still in complete control of me, he just chooses not to exercise it on your behalf,” Sherlock said briskly, pulling on the gloves with a snap. John darted an unreadable look at him.

A mistake, mentioning that again so soon after their last argument. It had been automatic, lacking most of its venom, but still sour enough for John to notice.

“Wow, and you’re accusing _me_ of being bitter?” Sally laughed, and Sherlock kept his face blank to avoid the wince. Still sour enough for everyone at the scene to notice, apparently.

“Well I wish he would choose to help out again sooner rather than later,” Anderson whined. “You’re almost as much a pain in my arse as you were before he showed up.” From the way Lestrade stared carefully at his notebook, it was clear he agreed, but knew saying anything would set Sherlock off worse. Sally, on the other hand, just looked at them like their brains had fallen out. A bit late to the realization that the two were functioning without the proper collection of neurons, Sherlock supposed, but she eventually got there.

“Hold on, you all think _John_ is the one in charge here?” she asked, bemused. “John ‘sure I’ll drop my life to call a murderer on my mobile for you’ Watson? The man who just sighed when the dead raccoon fell out of the cupboard on him during the last drugs bust? I mean, Hell, didn’t you drag him home from his mother’s funeral to make you a cup of tea a few months back?”

“That was only his aunt’s funeral, and he didn’t want to be there in the first place,” Sherlock corrected her.

“He’s right, I really didn’t,” John admitted. 

“I am going to throw the lot of you in a cell overnight,” Lestrade told them, tired. “Shut it and _do what you’re here for_. Sherlock, tell me this isn’t one of the killings we arrested Wrede for. Tell me the last murder we had you on doesn’t follow this pattern after all and we caught the right man that time too. It’s going to look _really bad_ if it turns out we were wrong about them, especially after John turned Wrede into a human piñata.”

“Oh, sure, lets go ahead and give The Freak all the reason we can to falsify even _more_ evidence,” Sally muttered. “That’s a great idea.”

“Sally, perhaps you shouldn’t take your anger over an unfaithful lover out on me. The man is cheating on his wife, now with two extramarital affairs, did you somehow think you were _different_? An exception? I assure you that you were not.”

Sally inhaled sharply. “Oh? And how different does John think things will be this time? How long until you decide to find out how many pieces he’ll break into again? What will that clever, twisted mind come up with to top your spectacular fall from the hospital roof?”

“Hey,” John said, startled, “that’s not on.”

“Perhaps, Sally, you shouldn’t make yourself such an attractive target to a man you are certain will become a murderer at any moment,” Sherlock hissed.

“Did you just threaten an officer of the law?” Sally growled.

“Back in your fucking cages, Christ,” Lestrade interrupted, “that is _it_. I am finished with you lot. Anderson, you’ve taken in all the evidence we need for records, go home. John, now you’re the one stuck telling Sherlock what he already knows about the body so he looks clever when he insults you for it; best of luck with that. Sherlock, Sally is your contact now. Squabble all you want, I won’t be here for it to give me a headache.” 

“Hey!” Sally complained, “if Sherlock is the one being a little shit, why am _I_ the one getting punished?”

“Oh yes,” Lestrade shot back, a wide, fake smile stretching his face, “because publicly ridiculing, insulting, and attempting to drive off a consultant that _we invited_ is ideal police behavior.”

Sally looked remarkably like Sherlock did when unhappy. “ _I_ didn’t invite him. _You_ invited him.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade agreed, “and _I_ am your boss. Figure this mess out and call me when you do.” 

They all watched Anderson and Lestrade pick up and leave. Sherlock huffed in annoyance and turned back to stare at the murder victim, occasionally leaning in to sniff her.

“I’m not sure if I’m happy that at least I don’t need to deal with Anderson on top of this, or annoyed that he says worse shit than I do and yet he gets to go home,” Sally muttered. 

“Probably both,” John guessed. “Look, I know you’re upset with Anderson, but—“

“Shut it.” Sally bit out, “Sherlock is full of shit. I’m the one cheating on Anderson, and _he’s_ the one trying to get me back, not the other way around. I’m not a heartbroken whinger who thinks a man fucking over his wife is doing it because he’s in love. If the dick was in love, he wouldn’t keep the wife.”

“Ah.” John shut up for a moment, then, “so why didn’t you dump him when you moved on?”

“I said _shut up_.”

“I hope you’ve enjoyed your little chat,” Sherlock broke in, and they both turned to look at him, startled. Oh, tiny minds and their tendency to block out everything else whenever they needed to concentrate on anything. “Ironically, while you have continued nattering uselessly, I was the one listening to Lestrade. You can all relax; this is quite clearly not Wrede’s work. Have Anderson look at the cuts again; Wrede was sloppy to the point of being useless, but these are artistically applied. Meant for pain, not only for disassembly.”

“Why is it so close to the others, then?” Sally challenged him, clearly not trusting him. “Are you trying to convince me we have a copycat when the previous ones never even hit the news?”

Sherlock sighed. “Because Artis was clearly copying the technique shown here. We already know he had made friends with one murderer; is it too difficult a stretch to believe he made more? Someone he respected and wanted to emulate, clearly, since he was copying their every move. Poorly,” he added contemptuously, “he wasn’t at all good at this. I would suggest you look forward to finding several more similar murders soon; this victim is obviously one of Wrede’s friends, a little too close to talking. There’s evidence of several parties present, but only one distinctive style in the actual wounds: a message, meant to intimidate the rest.”

“Oh yeah?” Sally asked, crossing her arms and frowning. “And how are you going to explain how you know that?”

“I’m not,” Sherlock replied, peeling off his gloves and chucking them at her; she dodged, surprised and furious, and John stifled a sigh behind him. “You’re not going to believe me anyway, so I won’t try. Find the evidence yourself; even you are more than capable. I’ve led you along as far as I intend to.” Sally made several protesting squawks that he ignored, simply walking past her and heading for the road to hail a taxi. She didn’t stop him.

***

John was silent for most of the cab ride home, and Sherlock found himself…anxious. Fidgety. He didn’t like it. John was pulling away and they hadn’t even had sex to ruin it first. For god’s sake, it hadn’t even lasted a full twelve hours. 

“She’s right,” John said softly when he and Sherlock got home. “Not on most of it, but…”

“Oh?” Sherlock asked coldly, “What did the joy that is Sally hit on by chance this time?”

“You’re really, _clearly_ bitter. About me.” John sighed. “Maybe I didn’t think about this enough. This isn’t… I’m not going to change. I change almost everything for you, I forgive almost everything, and I’m not giving up the few things I don’t.”

“Ah,” Sherlock’s stomach tensed, and he dropped the emotion from his face to avoid showing the sinking disappointment. He really should have expected it—it shouldn’t be such a surprise. It was just so _soon_ , he hadn’t even really had time to muck everything up properly. “So you have decided that holding our new relationship status hostage will improve my behavior.”

“ _No_ ,” John said emphatically, frustrated. “See, this is exactly what I’m talking about. I’m not trying to manipulate you. You can be a dick all you damn well please, and you know what, I like you despite it. If I’m honest, a lot of the time it’s hilarious and I like you because of it. But there’s a limit to how close I can let you get when you’re so angry with me, because if you’re in too far you’re going to rip my guts out. Can I take that from my best friend? Yes. Can I take that from my boyfriend? I don’t know.”

“I see,” Sherlock turned to him and removed his coat, laying it carefully on top of his scarf, “and I assume sex will change your mind? How much are you willing to ‘take’ if I compromise on what I am willing to?”

“ _No_ ,” John ground the heels of his hands against his eyes, clearly ready to take an ice pick to something. “ _Absolutely not_. That’s another problem right there, Sherlock. Compromise isn’t based on how miserable you’re willing to let someone else make you.”

“You’re not miserable,” Sherlock said curtly, and John swallowed, hard. “You haven’t been for years, you’re only really miserable when I’m not here.”

John stared at him. “That’s not… Look.” John seemed to search for the right words, “I need to think.”

“You mean you need to decide how to tell me you’re taking it all back and don’t want to do this anymore,” Sherlock snapped. 

“No, you great idiot, I mean I need to think.” John sighed. “You never _bend_. You never let anyone else win. You never let anyone help you unless it’s entirely on your terms, and you _always know best_. I don’t always have to be right, Sherlock, but I’d like to have a chance once in a while. If I ever am, though, you resent the _hell_ out of it.”

“I don’t resent you,” Sherlock said quickly.

“Don’t lie to me.” John rubbed his mouth and leaned against the table. “You resent anything I ask you to change but take all of me without noticing.”

“But you don’t _mind_ ,” Sherlock pleaded, and almost bit off his tongue. He cleared his throat and looked away. “You _like_ making me tea. You _like_ arguing. You _like_ living dangerously.” 

“You like it when your witnesses tell you what you want to know. You like when you get more access with the Met. You like when the flat is clean and Mrs. Hudson doesn’t get fed up and throw us out. But you hate that I have any part in it.” He sighed again. “I’m going back to bed. I’m just…I’m too tired. We’ll talk about it more in the morning, yeah?” 

Sherlock didn’t reply, and eventually John left.

***

Later that night Sherlock quietly opened John’s door and looked in. He didn’t make any noise, but John groaned and blinked, half-asleep.

“Greg call again?” John mumbled into the pillow. “When does he bloody sleep?”

Sherlock ignored him and wordlessly climbed into bed behind him. 

“Oi,” John managed, still muzzy, “I’m still thinking. I haven’t decided yet.” But he leaned back when Sherlock curled up behind him. Sherlock touched his mouth to the nape of John’s neck.

“You do make things easier,” Sherlock whispered. He kept his eyes shut tight. “I don’t resent you.”

“You clearly do,” John whispered back, but he tipped his head back to meet Sherlock’s brow. Carefully, Sherlock reached out to rest his fingers on John’s waist. 

“No,” Sherlock murmured, “I resent the need to change for everyone else, to ‘fix’ who I am, but you don’t want to fix me.” He took a deep breath, then, “You make things better without fixing me. You’re right. I’m wrong. I’m sorry.”

John didn’t say anything, but he reached back to pull the curve of Sherlock’s hip closer. Sherlock let out a shuddering breath and held on tighter, and eventually they both fell asleep.

***

Sherlock woke to John staring down at him. Something curled in his abdomen, warm. Sherlock ignored it.

“Hey,” John said softly. “You’re awake.”

Sherlock snorted. “You got all that from my opening my eyes and looking at you? Impressive.”

“Don’t be a prat about it,” John told him, grinning, “I can say what I like when I wake up and there’s a beautiful man in my bed. The smugness is overwhelming. I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “You most certainly can. Don’t you dare start on about alabaster skin and ebony hair, I will get up and leave.”

“You’ll get bored in a second anyway, lying here with me nattering on like a second landlady,” John told him, lying back with his arms under his head. Sherlock’s tongue itched when he looked at him, which made no sense whatsoever. “You’re going to leave anyway, and take your alabaster skin and ebony hair with you, and probably set one of them on fire. I could compose a sonnet right here, it won’t make a difference.”

“Don’t you dare,” Sherlock warned.

“Shall I compare thee to a stormy day?” John asked gleefully, and Sherlock groaned and hid his head under the pillow. “Thou art more lovely and more destructive.” 

“That isn’t composing, that’s plagiarizing,” Sherlock accused, voice muffled. 

“Rough, uh, rough cases are the, uh—“

Sherlock grinned, dropping the pillow. “You forgot the rest. You only know the first line.”

“Only need the first line to make a girl smile,” John explained, “and look, it works on blokes, too.” He propped himself up again and leaned close enough to kiss Sherlock’s temple. He didn’t move back away.

It wasn’t that Sherlock suddenly realized how little clothing either of them were wearing up until that point; Sherlock noticed everything. It was simply at that point that the information was suddenly relevant.

He felt his ears warm.

“Are we still…?” he asked hesitantly, hating the sound of the word ‘boyfriend’ too much to use it out loud.

“Yeah,” John said into his hair. “Yeah, we’re still. I panicked. I’m sorry.”

“You had reason to panic,” Sherlock allowed. 

“Mm.” John replied, sobering. Then he let out the breath he’d been holding. “Well. If I make toast and eggs, can I bully you into eating it?”

Sherlock smirked. “You can try.”

“Ugh,” John groaned, levering himself up, “how soon they forget. Last night it was ‘you’re always right, John’ and ‘you make everything better, John’, and now it’s ‘you can try to force me not to keel over from malnutrition. I might allow it, if you really must’.”

Sherlock snorted, eyes unaccountably drawn to John’s backside as he bent to search through his wardrobe. “I didn’t say you were _always_ right.”

“Hah.” John found a clean pair of pants, a shirt, and some jeans, and headed for the bathroom. “From you it was as good as.” He turned back and grinned. “Don’t suppose you could say it again so I can record it this time? I’d like to play it back whenever you’re in a strop next.”

He dodged when Sherlock threw a pillow at him and ducked out the door again, laughing.

Sherlock felt a ridiculous smile twist up the corners of his mouth, but since no one could see him, he left it there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the feels yo-yo there; I didn't mean to go "hey look they're finally together NO JUST KIDDING no really now they're together" there but uh I kind of did. THIS TIME IS FOR REALS.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SUPER EARLY UPDATE! To make up for the fact it's gonna take two more chapters to finish this. Is that... I mean is that okay? I'm not sure about the etiquette here-- is it alright that it keeps changing? I'm 95% sure that 7 chapters is going to be it now.
> 
> ALSO: there is finally some sex! I promised, I told you I would. It's not super hardcore porn, but wait a chapter, it totally will be. Once they really get going there will be so much porn.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock was concentrating. There was an imperfection in the mirror, and not from manufacturing; a slight crack, just at the edge of the screw in the corner. Brought on, likely, by force at the center, causing stress at the points it connected to the wall. 

“Sherlock.”

The force would have been blunt, without any hard surfaces, or at least none that connected with the glass; otherwise the damage would have been at the point of impact. One hard jolt, or several small ones over time.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock turned to glare at the shower curtain. “Shut up, I’m concentrating!”

“Well you can bloody concentrate somewhere else, I’m cold and want to get out of the shower!” John snarled from behind the plastic. “I’ve been staring at the same mould patch in here for a full fifteen minutes. Out of the bathroom, or at least pass me a towel!”

Sherlock made a valiant attempt to ignore him and failed. “How is it my fault that you’ve suddenly and mysteriously come down shy,” he sneered, frustrated, “after your many years in the military and assorted strange beds you’ve woken in?”

There was a thunk from the other side of the plastic sheet. “Did you just call me a slag again?”

“This time I did, yes,” Sherlock acknowledged, attention on the mirror again. Then he paused. “Did you just hit your head on the bathroom tile?” he asked, frowning.

“Seriously, Sherlock, _bugger off_ , I am _freezing_.”

“You hit your head on the mirror over the sink, too. Often,” he mused, realization dawning. “I can’t imagine why, as a doctor you must know it isn’t helpful to your well-being.”

“Because when you are whinging outside of the bathroom like a cat on the wrong side of the door, sometimes the frustration is overpowering,” John retorted, “ _much like now_. Will you _please_ pass me a towel?”

“Cats don’t fetch,” Sherlock said carelessly, peering at the faint cracks, “take your own advice and get it yourself.”

There was a short silence. “Sherlock, do you mind if I am in your presence with my penis out of my clothes?” John asked cautiously. 

“Don’t be an idiot, of course I don’t.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Why would I care what you do with your own genitals? You take them out and play with them _all the time_ in the bathroom, why would it matter if I’m here?”

Another silence, then, “Ah. Well.” John cleared his throat. “I’m getting out, then, I think they’ve started to turn blue from the cold.”

Sherlock huffed a quick laugh before he could suppress it, and John twitched back the curtain to grab a towel and dry off. Sherlock’s eyes went straight to his crotch.

“They’re not blue in the least.”

“Keep staring at them like that and they will be soon,” John told him cheerfully, scrubbing the towel in his hair, “since apparently leaving me alone time to deal with them is a foreign concept to you. What are you working on?”

“You’ve broken the mirror. I was trying to deduce how.”

“I have not, it’s just fine.” John pulled on his briefs and shoved a hip against Sherlock’s, pushing him out of the way so he could get at his toothbrush. Sherlock shoved back, but stumbled when John stopped pushing suddenly and slid in front of him, instead. There wasn’t much space; Sherlock’s hips were pressed right up against John’s backside.

Oh.

Well.

That was…oddly, unnervingly… pleasant.

“Yep,” John said around the toothbrush, oblivious to Sherlock’s sudden silence, “definitely going to be blue soon if you keep rubbing against me like that. Just let me shave and I’ll get out of your hair, and then you can primp in the mirror all you like.”

Had he been rubbing against him? Sherlock hadn’t noticed. “I wasn’t primping. I was observing.” He curled slightly around John so he could taste his ear, then lick some of the water from his neck, and John nearly stabbed the toothbrush through his own cheek before he lost his grip and dropped it. 

“ _Jesus_ ,” John managed, dropping his head against the glass and wiping the toothpaste from his mouth with the back of his hand. Sherlock dragged the tips of his fingers up John’s sides, then scraped his nails back down. “That…” John swallowed. The cracks at the corner of the mirror widened a fraction. 

This was rather nice, really. Sherlock shivered and shoved John up hard against the sink. John didn’t shiver; he gave a heavy shudder and his breath went uneven and shaky. His eyes were closed, forehead against the cool glass, and the sight of him made Sherlock push forward again, groaning.

“Sherlock,” John managed, his voice rough as Sherlock rocked against him, his own prick nearly as hard as John’s was. On his next thrust John pressed back into it almost against his will.

Which, really, was _fantastic_ , the _power_ of it—Sherlock experimented by biting John’s shoulder, and the breathy moan he received was definitely not a noise John would let himself make were he in control of his voice.

“Pull it,” he breathed in John’s ear, and John made a choked sound, helplessly gripping the sink, white-knuckled. “It must hurt, pressed up against the porcelain like that. I don’t mind.”

“Sherlock,” John said with a bit more force this time, but broke off when Sherlock pushed against him, harder. “Sherlock, you don’t—you said you can’t—“

“I can,” Sherlock informed him, his voice pitched low and pleased. “Pull.” John’s hand dropped to free himself from the briefs, then slowly, achingly, wrapped his fingers around his swollen prick and began stroking upwards. He braced himself against the mirror with his other arm, leaning into it even as he pushed back against Sherlock.

“I like this,” Sherlock whispered, dragging his fingertips down along John’s sides, then digging them in at his hips to jerk them roughly together. 

“Oh Christ, Sherlock.” John was lost, shaking with each thrust as it pushed him into his own fist, and from so _little_. When Sherlock moaned into his ear along with a particularly slow, pressing grind against him, he thumped his free hand hard against the glass; the crack snapped its jagged way across the entire surface.

John didn’t even notice. “Look at you,” Sherlock breathed against his ear, wringing a noise that was almost a sob from him, “Wrecked already. You couldn’t stop if you wanted to.” Which was a dangerous thought, actually, and his hips lost the slow rhythm they’d picked up. Sherlock was suddenly unsteady—John in control of his wolf was in no way threatening. John unable to control it, while not actually dangerous to Sherlock, was…concerning.

John’s eyes snapped open the moment he felt Sherlock pull back, and he lifted his head to look at Sherlock in the mirror. Whatever he saw in Sherlock’s face made him freeze, every muscle going rigid.

“Yes,” John told him softly, “I can.” He tugged his pants back up and set his hand carefully, non-threateningly, on the mirror with the other. “Sherlock, you told me you didn’t want to have sex with me.” 

“I don’t,” Sherlock agreed, tense and uncertain but trying desperately to keep it off his face. John was ready to stop cold, that much was clear—Sherlock had no reason to be anxious. “Are you upset with me for it?”

“Of course not.” John’s eyes didn’t leave his. “But this, right now, this is sex.”

Sherlock pulled away as if he’d been burned, and John looked sad. Sherlock felt unpleasantly exposed, even though he was still fully clothed and John should have been the vulnerable one, standing in nothing but his underwear. 

“No,” he said coldly, suddenly furious. “More convincing men than you have tried to guilt me into more with more reason; I’m not going to shag you simply because I’ve ‘teased’ you. I’ve been completely straightforward. I haven’t ‘led you on’; you can’t possibly be confused. I’m not letting you rut in my arse no matter how much you want to, I don’t care if its my fault you want it or not.”

“I absolutely do not want to do that, Sherlock.” John told him steadily, still watching him through the mirror instead of turning to speak with him directly. It was one of the things keeping Sherlock from irrationally darting back to his room and locking the door. “You don’t want me to; that means I don’t want to.”

Sherlock laughed harshly. “Of course you do, I’m not _blind_ , I can see your erection from here.”

“Until a moment ago, I could feel yours,” John pointed out. “I don’t know whose words you’re repeating, Sherlock, but they’re not mine. Affection and sexual contact are not lead-ups to the ‘real thing’ where you ‘let’ me do anything. There’s no sex goalpost.”

“Then what,” Sherlock started, but couldn’t finish. 

John waited, but when Sherlock didn’t continue, he said, “I wasn’t trying to pressure you into more than you wanted to do, I was warning you that we were, right there, having sex, and you told me you didn’t want that.”

“I wasn’t even _touching_ your prick, that wasn’t _sex_ ,” Sherlock exploded. He wanted to run, but John was too close to the door to get by without brushing by too closely; if Sherlock twisted to avoid him, he’d show his hand rather more than he wanted. “That was—it wasn’t sex.”

“This is why I’ve been confused and keep bringing up the same subject over and over again, Sherlock,” John said warily, “because I don’t know what you mean when you say that you don’t want to have sex. You don’t mean the same thing that I do. I _knew_ this would happen.”

“You knew I would shove you into the sink,” Sherlock said dubiously, and John smiled.

“I knew I would make a mistake and upset you. And I knew I would feel like shit for it.” He took a deep breath. “I am up for whatever you want to do, Sherlock. Absolutely any of it. If you’re interested in kissing, I _like_ kissing, I’ll be thrilled. If you want to ‘shove me against the sink’ and bite my shoulders for any length of time you please, fantastic, I’m all in. If what you want is leaning against me while you shout at the television, well, I like that too—It’s all fine.”

“You’ll never get the real thing,” Sherlock croaked, then cleared his throat and looked away. 

“There is no ‘real thing’,” John said, and suddenly a little of the wolf bled through and John was terrifying. “And if I am ever around whatever whining, manipulative piece of shit that said all this to you, _do not tell me_ , because I will rip his fucking _throat_ out—“ 

Sherlock straightened abruptly; to hell with being obvious about fleeing the scene, he needed to get _out_ —

John inhaled sharply and dropped his head back against the mirror. “Sorry. Sorry. That wasn’t helpful. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock was quiet, and John didn’t say anything more.

“Anything. Or nothing,” Sherlock asked doubtfully, and John nodded against the glass, eyes now shut.

“Whatever you want to do or not do.” His eyes opened again, and he looked vaguely worried, perhaps remembering who he was talking to. “Except corpses. No corpses of any kind near any part of me if I am not actively examining them fully clothed with gloves on, in an absolutely nonsexual context.”

Sherlock was startled into a laugh. “Of course,” he said, panic slowly dissipating. “No corpses. Anything else?”

John thought for a moment. “No biological waste, human or not. Don’t put anything in my arse without asking me first, and I have to say yes to the specific thing. Ask me before you tie me to anything. No blood. And no drugs.” He glanced back over his shoulder at Sherlock. “You?”

“Don’t put your penis in my mouth, or anywhere on my face. Don’t put my hands on your penis. Don’t put anything in my arse, ever, at all.” He considered. “Ditto your biological waste rule. I’m going to leave now, I think. Move.”

John nodded, and moved immediately. “One more thing, though, Sherlock. Just because you don’t want to do something doesn’t mean you can’t ask me to. I don’t mind. Sex isn’t a business transaction, either; you don’t need to balance accounts.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You will have to be more clear.”

John shrugged. “You can ask me for a blowjob, for example, and you don’t need to give me one in return if you don’t want to. You don’t need to pay me back for it, or any other nonsense.”

Sherlock stared at him, baffled. “Why on earth would you want to give a blowjob with nothing in return? Blowjobs are _awful_.”

John grinned, lazy and slow. “Because I like them, I like you, and I think you’ll enjoy it.”

Sherlock flushed. “Ah. Right,” he managed, and fled.

***

“What were you studying the mirror for, anyway?” John asked around a mouthful of curry when Sherlock dragged himself from his room, dressed in his heaviest suit with every button done up to his neck. John’s eyes lingered at the top of his shirt, tight and uncomfortable but emotionally necessary, before apparently deciding not to mention it. “Don’t we have a case on?”

“Ugh, boring,” Sherlock spat, sitting across from John at the table with his legs tight together, then catching himself and intentionally relaxing his posture. John’s eyes narrowed, then went deliberately down to his food. “This one may be better at what he does, but they’re all equally uninspired. The Yard does not need my help to find more of them.”

“They’d likely appreciate it, though,” John mused. 

Sherlock glared at him. “You think I should tell Sally about it instead of letting her do her job.”

“Sally hates you for a lot of reasons,” John told him, setting his fork down and resting his chin on his palm, “but she doesn’t trust you because she can’t follow your thinking. It isn’t logic to her, it’s magic, and magic isn’t real. If you show her a few that she can follow, that she can check out for herself, it will go a long way towards keeping from getting accused of the very crimes you’re solving.”

“A case that Sally could follow is a waste of my time and ridiculously beneath me,” Sherlock sneered, “I’m not going to degrade myself dancing like a performing monkey for her so she trusts me more.”

“Do it for me then,” John said quietly, “since I don’t enjoy it when you’re arrested.”

They both looked anywhere but at each other for a bit, but then Sherlock huffed, snatched up his phone, and retreated to the lounge to dial the Yard. John let out the breath he’d been holding and went back to his dinner.

***

There were three more cases with Sally Donovan, and each of them was more miserably mind-numbing than the last. Apparently Lestrade (stupid, but less stupid than most) had noticed immediately that Sherlock was taking on work he’d have refused before. He didn’t stop to wonder why, but instead had ordered her to go through file after unsolved file from the past year until Sherlock’s goodwill ran out. 

When Anderson commented snidely that apparently Sherlock had a new trainer, then heavily implied that Sally had managed to wrangle this status on her back, Sherlock had snarled and lit into the man with such vicious fury that everyone within earshot fell silent in cringing awe. 

“This is new,” John broke the quiet after a moment, “never thought I’d see you argue with the yard and not manage to be the bigger dick in the fight. Look, Sally’s staring like she expects someone to leap out of the bushes with a camera and shout ‘surprise’ any moment now.”

Sally gaped at them, utterly bewildered, then threw her hands up. “What the hell, Sherlock? What the bloody fuck is going on? I’m expecting you to leave dismembered heads on my doorstep next!”

Sherlock flipped his collar up, ignoring John’s amused look. “John has informed me that I would do well to take your sensitive, unstable feelings into account lest I end up arrested again,” he said frostily. “In the spirit of camaraderie, therefore, I am willing to overlook the less egregious of your intellectual fumbles and attempt to explain things in comfortingly small words. And I insulted Anderson because he’s a disgusting, useless worm of a human being, not for your benefit.”

Sally turned, stone faced, to look at John.

“Not what I actually said,” he demurred, “but, vaguely, kind of a similar idea. Sort of.”

“I must say I’m pleased your taste in sexual companions has improved,” Sherlock continued with a sniff, “I wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face attempting to be kind to Anderson. You’re far too good for him, as pedestrian as your charms may be.”

“Upside,” John told her cheerily, “Sherlock’s too much of an arse not to follow up insincere praise with a good one-liner smacking us back down, so you know he means if if you get anything at all positive.”

“Well, stop it,” she bit out, turning back to Sherlock, “it’s bloody creepy is what it is. I don’t need you to condescend to me with backhanded compliments.” But she let him explain the (ridiculously simple) crime scene to her without actively accusing him of lying, and even managed to grudgingly thank him when he left.

Overall, though, she seemed relieved when he started refusing to help again. Lestrade had sighed and muttered something about knowing his lucky streak wouldn’t last.

***

John was doing the dishes when Sherlock brought it up later that week.

“I knew it wouldn’t change anything,” Sherlock told him over the lip of his teacup. John sighed in the way that said he was rolling his eyes and continued scrubbing. “It only put Donovan off when I tried to make nice.”

“Number one, it did help. I know you’re clever enough to notice that she’s blaming you for fewer murders already.” He put a dripping plate in the drainer and started scrubbing one of Sherlock’s experiments on ‘how long I can make John scour the same dish before he throws it out’. He frowned and ground the sponge into the stain to no avail. “Number two, if I told you to just try baking because you’d be an expert in a day, you’d toss whatever’s in the cupboard into a bowl, put it into the oven at 300C, and decide it was proof you couldn’t be expected to arse yourself with the cooking.” He sighed and put the dish aside to soak. It wouldn’t help. “You can’t claim poor results that are clearly due to lack of effort as evidence, and you know it.”

“I certainly can,” Sherlock argued, putting his tea aside to slide up behind him at the sink. “I just did.”

“Anyway,” John said, ignoring him and dropping a handful of silverware into the rack, “since you’ve actually managed to achieve a _positive_ result with your half-arsed go of it, to the surprise of everyone involved, I think I can safely say you were wrong, and I was right this time too.”

“Hm.” Sherlock rested his chin on John’s shoulder and pouted. John just laughed and leaned against him, rinsing out the mug in his hands before drying them on a teatowel. Then he left his fingers on the lip of the sink instead of moving on to whatever tedious chore he planned to do next. Sherlock approved.

“Thank you,” John said, eyes drifting shut, head dropped back against the crook of Sherlock’s neck. 

Sherlock’s mouth pulled slightly at the corner. “’Thank you’? You just finished pointing out how astoundingly lackluster my performance was.”

“Hmph,” John replied, apparently all emotioned out after talking about feelings non-stop for the past week. Sherlock grinned against his ear, content to rest his hands on John’s hips and stay propped against him in the kitchen for a full four minutes and thirty-seven seconds before he eventually wandered off to make something explode.

Apparently, however, John’s gratitude did not extend to forgiving Sherlock for mixing unstable chemicals in one of his tea mugs, which was _clearly unfair_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So really, I need your honest feedback; is it alright that I keep extending the end point of this fic, as long as I update regularly? When I posted the first chapter, I said it was going to be only three chapters, which was CLEARLY A LIE. Be honest. Is it annoying that I faked people out at first with a promise of a speedy conclusion, or is it alright that the story is building bigger than expected as long as I don't draw it out too long?
> 
> UPDATE: WOW. I got 26 comments overnight telling me not to worry and just write the fic as it plays out! MESSAGE RECEIVED. I'm overwhelmed with the consistently positive and encouraging messages I get on my work, honestly, you guys are fantastic. THANK YOU so much for making writing such a rewarding experience!
> 
> UPDATE: You guys, YOU GUYS, you have popped me up on PAGE 88 of johnlock fics sorted by kudos. You are AMAZING thank you SO MUCH.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little early again! Enjoy. I used up most of this chapter on one simple sex act and its leadup-- goodness! But the actual outside plot is starting to ramp up!

Sherlock had innumerable reasons to appreciate his Belstaff. It had many fantastic uses, including making John smile when he flipped the collar up or turned a shade too dramatically. It made him look taller and more imposing, and even (and this was the smallest of advantages but present nonetheless) kept him moderately warm when it was cold outside. Still, he was currently most enamored of how mercifully enveloping it was when he absolutely needed it. 

He had been awkwardly, uncomfortably half-erect for long, untimely periods now for _days_. His coat was likely the only reason the entirety of Scotland Yard hadn’t yet noticed.

It had started innocuously enough. John had been on the floor of the kitchen, rummaging around in one of the bottom cupboards, likely for some tiresome, cleaning-related reason. Sherlock had wandered over to stand behind him and reach over in search for the sugar, and John had turned slightly to brush a quick kiss to Sherlock’s thigh before going back to what he was doing.

Sherlock had nearly swallowed his tongue.

His mind had immediately latched on to the moment John had offered no-strings fellatio after their last sex-related disaster. It had then, completely unhelpfully, expanded on the subsequent possibilities in full, pornographic color. His stomach had twisted, his cock had taken urgent interest, and he’d almost dropped the sugar on John’s head. Then he’d further embarrassed himself by turning tail and running like a pre-adolescent with his first crush. 

It had been haunting him since, emerging not only as dreams and embarrassing memories, but chokingly erotic fantasies at completely inappropriate times.

True, Sherlock had never been the most socially apt individual, but even he knew one was not supposed to become aroused at a crime scene. That it was the height of bad taste to suddenly find the need to button up when John dropped down to examine a body, or crouched to talk to a witness, or knelt, for heaven’s sake, to speak to a small child looking for their mother in the park.

And every time it _built_. He became more aroused, more desperate, to the point that today he had stalked away from the last murder site before he’d even had a chance to insult Anderson properly, leaving John to scramble to his feet and run after him. It was _ridiculous_.

Clearly, the solution was simple. The whole reason it was an issue was because John had expressed his willingness to solve it, after all. Of course, when Sherlock finally screwed up his courage and mentioned it, the carefully reasoned and enticing come on he’d calculated for hours caught in his throat. 

“John. Would. Uh. Sex.” 

John made an inquiring noise around a mouthful of his breakfast and raised an eyebrow.

Oh. Brilliant. There went half the night staring at the ceiling in bed planning. Sherlock had bypassed even a proper lead up; the last thing he’d been talking about had been liquidation rates of human tissues in hot climates. Hardly the most erotic setup. John was not panting with lust like he’d been in the bathroom. Not turning red and crushing himself against Sherlock like he’d hoped. No, John looked fondly amused, as if Sherlock was a particularly beloved pet or small child. 

Very much not the intended result.

Sherlock gave up. “I want to try a blowjob. From you.”

John choked on his eggs and needed several strong thumps on the back to resume breathing, after which Sherlock quickly fled for the safety of his room.

 _Oh god_. 

That had been _mortifying_. How did he manage to tie his own shoes on a regular basis? Clearly idiocy was infectious and he had simply taken longer than most to contract it. He sat on his bed and pulled his hair in abject humiliation for a few miserable moments, before everything became exponentially _worse_ and John was knocking on the door. As if Sherlock couldn’t drown himself in his own shame without John’s help.

And as the icing on the whole, awful cake, for some completely unknowable reason, his traitorous erection was _completely undaunted_. It happily strained against his trousers as if there was _any_ chance of it having something to do in the near future. In any future, if this sort of appallingly wretched experience was any indication.

“Sherlock! Sherlock, look, I’m sorry. I was just surprised, are you alright? Sherlock? I…wait.” There was a short silence. “Sherlock, what’s that sound? Are you—are you _trying to climb out the window_?”

“No,” Sherlock lied, sitting on the edge with one foot dangling over Mrs Hudson’s bins.

“Well Jesus, get away from the sill, you’ll break something. Fine, we don’t have to talk about this now. But you don’t need to be so embarrassed.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” Sherlock sniffed, not moving.

“Right,” John agreed, “of course you’re not. What was I thinking? I’ll be around when you’re ready to talk more about how completely not embarrassed you are without escaping over the roof to avoid it.”

“I’m telling you how ‘completely not embarrassed’ I am right now.”

“That’s good,” John told him through the door. “Great. In that case, we’ll talk about how much I would love to have your prick in my mouth any time you want it instead. How about that?”

“Nng,” Sherlock replied, and almost fell out of the window.

“Come out when you’re ready to discuss how much I’d enjoy sucking your cock,” John continued, clearly having a fantastic time being as shocking as possible, “I’ll be sure to show you this one trick I learned in uni, I would just _love_ to use it on you--”

“ _Shut up_ , you do realize Mrs Hudson can easily hear you at that volume,” Sherlock choked out, scrambling for the door.

“According to you I’m doing a rubbish job hiding it, so she probably already knows,” John went on cheerfully, “and I thought you didn’t care what other people thought of you? Well, don’t mind me, leap out the window, I can continue on at this volume without you. Would you rather, when we finally talk about it, be on your back or standing? Standing, knowing you, and—“

“Shut up shut up shut up—“ Sherlock yanked the door open and shoved John back into the hallway, hand over his mouth, and—

And John _melted_ against him, opening his mouth and taking in two of Sherlock’s fingers and—

And that should be disgusting, honestly, but it _definitely was not_ , and—

And Sherlock couldn’t help it, he groaned and slammed John into the wall, grinding his hips up against him. John moaned in response, gripping Sherlock’s waist and pulling him tighter, letting go of his fingers and biting a soft trail across his jaw to his ear. Sherlock fumblingly brought his hands up to slap against the wall on either side of John’s head and tried not to moan too loudly.

“God, you feel amazing,” John ground out, rocking against him and reaching up to cup Sherlock’s face. Sherlock let out a soft noise, irrationally sure the gesture alone was more intimate than anything he had experienced before, including every act he’d participated in with Victor. It was certainly more enjoyable. He shivered and leaned into it, and John smiled for him, tilting his head further in his hands to kiss a soft line along his collarbone, wringing sighs from Sherlock as he went. The slow rock of his hips was _breathtaking_ , the pads of his fingers trailing down his chest was _electric_ , and Sherlock had been on the edge of arousal for too many days—he sobbed, despairing and needy, and arched helplessly against John.

John didn’t mind; he moaned back, holding him tight. “Gorgeous thing,” he murmured, “you are going to love this. I’m not crazy about hair pulling, but I don’t mind if you want to,” he whispered, and— _oh god_ —slowly dropped to his knees. Then he _bit_ Sherlock’s trousers, just close enough to flesh to be exciting without actually touching him, and Sherlock almost lost his balance. Really, that should be in no way attractive, but Sherlock’s prick hadn’t been listening to him for days and it wasn’t going to start now. He rested his head against the hideous wallpaper, took a deep breath, and tried to focus on not passing out.

John fished in a pocket, pulled out a condom, then stopped and looked up at him. Sherlock made an effort not to look as wrecked as he was. He was 98% certain that he failed.

“Yes?” John asked, his voice thick, and tore the packet. 

“Yes,” Sherlock managed, hoarse, “yes, _please, now_.” John smiled, insufficiently moved by his plight; he took his own damn time with Sherlock’s fly, then just brushed Sherlock’s cock with his fingertips once his trousers were open. Sherlock bit his lip to stifle his whimpers and John just laughed, and then he—

Well. He put the condom in his mouth. Sherlock stared at him, thrown.

“I’m relatively certain that is not where that goes,” Sherlock managed doubtfully. 

John snorted and gave him a smirk, the one that said John knew more than Sherlock and was enormously pleased with himself about it. Sherlock felt vaguely offended at that; he was not the one sitting in a hallway on his knees eating a condom.

Then, Holy Mary Mother of God, John _rolled it onto him with his mouth_. Sherlock couldn’t focus; he choked, dropped one hand to clutch the back of John’s head, and with the other dug his nails into the wallpaper. John sucked gently, then he was doing something _really fantastic_ with his tongue that made Sherlock see stars. It was too much; he was only dimly aware of John undoing his own trousers, and he certainly wasn’t aware of anything beyond the two of them.

John was touching him, grazing his nails up his inner thighs, rolling his testicles in his palm, while at the same time he was sucking, licking, using just the hint of teeth—it was _maddening_ , and he stopped thinking.

Sherlock Holmes stopped thinking. He could barely recognize his surroundings, his entire world had narrowed to John’s hands and mouth, and it was _brilliant_. 

John was swallowing around him now; this was going to be embarrassingly quick.

“I’m—oh god John I—“ Whatever John was doing, he did harder and faster and Sherlock jerked against him, every muscle clenching. John moaned around his cock— _don’t pull his hair don’t pull his hair_ —and Sherlock came in his mouth— _Christ in his mouth_ —and recovered just enough of his wits to realize John was wanking and coming, too, before Sherlock lost control of his knees and fell on him.

John gave a sluggish ‘oof’ of surprise and dumped Sherlock on the floor in order to focus on gasping past a heavy shot to his solar plexus. 

Oh.

God.

As soon as Sherlock forced his brain to move again (it was currently paralyzed with horror), he was definitely going to make good on his plans to jump out the window, except _really_ , he should probably do it headfirst. He blushed bright red as all the blood in his body apparently rerouted directly from his cock to his face. 

John was still wheezing and choking. Had Sherlock managed to do John actual injury? He would be the only Holmes to successfully damage his lover by falling on him during sex, and Mycroft would find out because _of course he would_ , and the entire Holmes family would be horrified, and John would never want to fellate him ever again—

Sherlock paused in his frantic hysteria.

John was laughing. 

The abominable twit was _laughing_ at him. 

Sherlock was going to put live scorpions in his shoes.

“I fail to see what is so amusing about your lover injuring you upon completion of orgasm,” he said stiffly, and John took a huge gasping breath in response and started _cackling_ , the dreadful little horror. And it was completely unfair, really, since John was the one rolling around helplessly on the floor without even taking the time to put his penis back in his pants. Sherlock pursed his lips and sat up with a petulant grunt.

“Come here. Oh god, come here,” John wheezed. He reached out before Sherlock could retreat for his room again and pulled him close, a hand in his curls and his other arm around Sherlock’s waist. The display might even have been convincing if he hadn’t been sniggering through it. He took a deep breath, giggled, then sucked in another breath. “Oh god, okay, I’m better, I’ve stopped.”

“I’m never putting plastic down under cadavers for you again,” Sherlock told him coolly, which just sent John off in stitches again. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“No, just, oh Christ, just wait,” John giggled, and Sherlock almost got to his feet in a huff before John pulled him closer and peppered his hair with kisses in between snickers. Sherlock decided he was _slightly_ mollified. “You are beautiful, you are incredible, best bloody shag I’ve had in years, I don’t care one bit about a silly little fall at the end.” Sherlock reluctantly relaxed into him, and John touched his lips to Sherlock’s cheek. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. It just shows me how bloody fantastic my blow jobs are, is all.” 

“It was acceptable,” Sherlock told him rigidly, trying not to smile.

John snorted, grinning ear to ear. “My blowjobs are _almost_ as amazing as you are, don’t give me that. I know the truth. Come on, let’s clean up and go cuddle on the sofa or something else suitably saccharine, I’m in the mood for it.”

***

They were, in fact, very close to cuddling on the sofa when Mrs Hudson brought Donovan up.

Sherlock had his head pillowed in John’s lap while the doctor read the newspaper, stretched out across the cushions in his usual thinking pose. John’s hand was in his hair, destroying a look that took an extraordinary amount of time to achieve, but Sherlock, much to his own surprise, didn’t much care. Anyway, if he hadn’t already ruined it upstairs, Sherlock would be shocked.

Sally opened the door without knocking, although they’d both heard her on the way up. “Hey, Freak, I…” Then she caught sight of them, both staring up at her mildly, and seemed to lose the thread of what she was saying. 

“I,” she tried, “huh.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m not sure what it is about our relationship that renders those encountering it to monosyllabic fumbling, John, but I can’t say I’m enjoying it,” he complained. John poked him.

“Hey, you’re talking about me there too, watch it.”

Sally seemed to shake herself out of it. “Is this a new thing, then, or has Anderson won the betting pool?”

“Have a think, Sally,” Sherlock said pityingly, “and consider your own question about whether Anderson was correct about something. Surely even your meager collection of IQ points is capable of that level of reasoning.”

“Right, of course, how silly of me,” Sally shot back. “Are you two busy shagging your brains out now that you’ve miraculously discovered each other’s arses, or would you like to look at a crime scene with me?”

John snorted, trying not to laugh, and Sherlock tried to look as unimpressed as possible. “I’m not sure,” Sherlock countered, sneering, “will you be able to find your own with a flashlight if we don’t?”

“Ooh, clever. You’re so very smart and witty.” Sally was just as good at looking unimpressed as Sherlock was. “Look, are you going to have a look at the bodies or not? There’s… well, there’s something off about it.”

“Definitely ‘or not,’ thanks all the same,” Sherlock told her, staring back up at the ceiling while John shrugged at her. “You’re clearly here about another of Wrede’s little group, which you’ve shown yourself to be quite capable of mopping up alone. I don’t see any reason to involve myself in shuffling you off in the right direction like a small child.”

Sally looked like she didn’t know how to feel about that statement. “Right. Fine. Well, I’ll go off and ‘mop up’, then, and you can enjoy your very important business of lying about staring at the ceiling,” she sniped.

“Much appreciated,” Sherlock replied. Sally gave a frustrated growl, turned, and stalked back out as quickly as she’d slammed in. 

Sherlock closed his eyes. “You think I should go,” he said to John.

He could feel John shrug. “She’s making a serious effort. She actually came to you for help on a case. That’s a big deal, and you said yourself she’s been more than capable of doing this all alone. If she thinks something’s weird enough that she wants your help, it might actually be weird enough to be interesting.”

“She’s making an effort for the sake of her job, not for me. She doesn’t like that Greg was correct when he called her out for her lack of professionalism.” 

“Well, it’s up to you,” John acknowledged, and went back to reading.

Sherlock glared through his eyelids for three full minutes before he sat up, exasperated. “Fine. Stop thinking so loudly that I’m making a mistake, I’m going, shut up.”

“I wasn’t thinking anything,” John protested, trying and failing not to look smug. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“ _Lies_.” Sherlock dragged himself to his feet and slouched into his overcoat. “Are you coming too, then?”

“Of course,” John replied, not getting up, “I’m just waiting for you to get halfway out the door, you’re sulking so hard it’s taking you twice the time it usually does. I don’t want to wait on you while you lag around looking put-upon.”

Sherlock sniffed and dragged slower. John laughed at him, and he tried not to smile when John ducked over to pull him down for a fond kiss before he reached for his own jacket. “Come on then, you can show us all how clever you are, you’ll love it.”

“It does sound vaguely tolerable,” Sherlock admitted. 

***

In fact, once they actually made it to the crime scene, the wounds on the victim’s arms immediately caught Sherlock’s attention. Four brisk steps across the pavement had him crouched over her, carefully cataloguing the minutiae of the splayed body. 

Of course, John and Donovan immediately started chatting as if he weren’t there. Certainly his attention was focused on the task at hand, but somehow because he ignored everyone when he concentrated, they seemed to believe he couldn’t hear them.

“So you and the Freak now? For real?” Sally was staring at John as though he had just confessed a fondness for walking over broken glass before swimming in shark infested waters. “More than the usual? Like, actual shagging and everything?”

John gave her a quelling look. “I’m not sure that’s really any of your business.”

“Mate,” she said, exasperated, “you just do not have a sense of self preservation in the least! Sherlock, I’ll grant you, is _probably_ not going to murder you in your sleep like I thought he was—”

John gaped. “You thought Sherlock was going to what?”

“—but it is a _close thing_. The man is a sociopath, he _doesn’t have feelings_. If you let yours get tangled up with him you’re going to get hurt, a lot, when he eventually gets bored with it. For fuck’s sake, in a week he’ll be experimenting with how miserable he can make you. Hell, your pecker will probably end up in a jar of alcohol in the next month.”

“I see.” John crossed his arms and leveled her with a displeased look. “I tell you what. Either you’re right and I’m fucked, since I hitched my train car to Sherlock quite a long time ago, thanks, and he’s had plenty of time to send me off the rails. Or you’re wrong, and by listening to you I alienate someone who cares about me and trusts me. I’m not sure how you think this is helping, here.”

Sherlock glanced up. “I’d like to add that I’ve already proven that I am entirely willing to leap from a building with only a 50% certainty I will survive it, in order to protect him,” Sherlock interrupted, looking back down at the body. Clues were clicking together; everything he’d noticed in the other crime scenes was suddenly forming a pattern he had been stupid enough to ignore. “I don’t see how that kind of choice can be attributed to anything but sentiment.”

They both stared at him, amazed he’d been able to hear a conversation not two yards away. Honestly. Apparently it was astonishing that he could concentrate his close attention on two things at once; normal people were so _vapid_. He sighed and stood.

“As astoundingly wrong as you are about my affections for John, you were indeed correct that this scene is ‘off’, as the police are apparently referring to these things nowadays,” he continued, pulling off his gloves with a snap. John, who would normally smile at the drama of such a move, didn’t; Sherlock was suddenly left wondering what on earth he’d done wrong _this_ time. “This isn’t simply a murder club, or whatever infantile phrasing you’re using now—this is an apprenticeship program. You’ve been catching up the students without a problem because they’re a pack of imbeciles, off doing their homework and doing it poorly, as students tend to do. Even the most skillful of the group, the one who made an example of one of the group, lacked imagination and simply got by on mimicry. The teacher, though—he’s _clever_.” Sherlock smiled, thrilled at the prospect. 

“If he’s so clever, how come we’ve found one of his jobs, then?” Sally wanted to know. 

Sherlock gave her a withering look. “This isn’t his work. But look here and here—poorly done, but attempts at a very specialized dismemberment technique. There have been several similarly poor attempts at advanced knifework on the other bodies, all botched in the murderer’s own, egregious way. Then here…” 

Sherlock ticked through the list, keeping an eye on John—who wasn’t smiling. John wasn’t even paying attention, although his eyes were on Sherlock. He looked upset, angry, scared, and worried, layered over with his usual ‘in-public’ polite blandness. Perhaps Sherlock wasn’t in trouble after all, but he couldn’t imagine what had happened to change John’s mood so drastically.

“…you’re looking for more bodies that have similar disposal techniques, similar wounds and cut marks, but carried out more thoroughly and without mistakes. Unlikely that you’ll find them if he tries to hide them; he’s far too good at what he does. But you must have picked up from me at some point that genius needs an audience; before he’d recruited his little circle, he needed the public. Look through the unsolved cases from before these started appearing, put the screws to the idiots you’ve already rounded up, and text when you have something for me to work with. As it is, all this tells me is that he exists.”

“Old unsolved cases. You mean all the ones you were too high and mighty to have a look at when they happened,” Sally asked pointedly. 

“Hm. Yes,” Sherlock allowed. “Have a wonderful evening with the Yard’s abysmal filing system, Sally. I’m off.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned this in the last chapter as an update, but I wanted to say again in case people didn't see it: THANK YOU for all the kudos, comments, and hits! Thank you for being unrelentingly positive and encouraging, for making writing this such a fun and rewarding experience, for making me so eager to get to work on this that it is no trouble at all to make consistent updates on time! You are all so fantastic.
> 
> I know this sounds like comment baiting, but I really want to know: what made you decide to read this fic in the first place? And what made you keep at it? I want to know what I'm doing well so I can be sure to do it in the future! And as ever, are there any things I could do better? Any things you want to see that you haven't? Any typos? :D Let me know!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started out with the tag Safe Sex; I've changed it to Safer Sex because there's a very short scene involving unprotected genital contact. John makes them stop and get protection, but it's still a bit risky with STIs, yeah?
> 
> UPDATE: So apparently no one has any problems with the surfeit of Johnlock sex herein, awesome. I was a little worried maybe they were moving too fast! Don't worry; Sherlock is not magically cured of his hatred of things in him, but there are some definitely sexytimes in this chapter.

Sherlock had expected John to remain silent until they made it home; when he didn’t say anything upon taking off his coat, though, Sherlock felt his anxiety ratchet up another notch. Perhaps he was in trouble after all? But John wasn’t abusing the objects nearby—slamming doors and the like, as he usually did when he was cross. He didn’t seem angry at all, in fact. Emotional. Distressed. Not angry. John made his tea just like usual, then dropped heavily into his chair in front of the fireplace, ignoring him. Sherlock put up his coat and sat down opposite, pulling his knees up and waiting for him to say something.

He didn’t.

“John. You have bitten your lip at a rate of three times a minute for the past quarter hour,” Sherlock informed him eventually, unable to keep still.

“Observant,” John replied, not looking at him. “Deduced anything yet?”

Ah. So he _was_ in trouble. Sherlock linked his arms around his legs and tried to appear nonchalant. “You’re upset with me. I haven’t yet deciphered why.”

“I’m not—“ John cut himself off and glanced over, tired. “I’m trying not to be. It’s… I’m upset about you. Not with you.”

Sherlock’s brows rose. “The fifty percent,” he realized. “I hadn’t mentioned before that I was unsure the leap from Bart’s would be successful.”

“Yes. I mean no,” John told him, letting out a long, jittery breath. “You didn’t.” He ran his hands through his hair. “That’s not an acceptable risk, Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowned, uncomfortable but clearly in the right. “Of course it was. The risk to the three of you was much greater. Besides, the effect the jump had on your emotional wellbeing was particularly detrimental, as I knew it would be. It’s only reasonable that I accept a high risk in return.”

“Sherlock.” John used his military voice, and Sherlock sat up straighter in his chair. “Fifty percent is not an acceptable risk.”

“This is a new rule,” Sherlock guessed. John nodded, and Sherlock pressed his lips together. “An unreasonable one. I’m… not certain I will be able to follow it. You had almost a ninety present chance of death; when I compare ninety and fifty, I cannot help but see a vast improvement. When I take into account that the risk is for me instead of you, there is no choice to be made. I will take it. I would take it again.”

John clenched his eyes shut. “I can’t… I can’t trust your decisions when you use that reasoning, and I can’t do what you ask of me in a crisis if I can’t believe you’re making a smart choice.”

Sherlock smiled without humor. “I know. I wouldn’t ask. It’s only long-term that I have difficulty predicting your actions, John; short term, I can goad you into anything I have reason to. I have tried to limit it of late, but…were the situation to arise again, I would not hesitate.”

“Christ.” John ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, a familiar and sure sign he was near the end of his rope. They weren’t even fighting. Were they fighting? No one was yelling, or even angry, but Sherlock’s chest and stomach were tense and knotted up, as badly as the last time they were at each other’s throats. “You’re going to be the death of me, Sherlock,” John murmured, despairing, and somehow this was worse than a fight.

“I certainly hope not,” he told him, anxious. “That is, after all, what I will be trying to avoid.” Sherlock moved forward to kneel before him and took John’s wrists to pull his hands from his face. “You would do the same. You would have accepted the ninety percent to save me from my mere fifty, don’t lie and say you wouldn’t. You were furious with me for months because I didn’t let you do just that.”

John laughed, but it had everything leached from it. “I would,” he admitted, “and god help me, I’d lie to you to do it, too.” 

“I don’t understand.” Sherlock hesitated, then mimicked John’s move from earlier: he took John’s face in his hands, leaned in and touched their brows together. John’s eyes closed and he went almost limp, but in defeat, not relief. Sherlock felt ill. “We’re not fighting. We’re agreeing.”

“No, we’re fighting,” John corrected him. “This is… this is a really awful fight. This is the kind of fight where nothing is helped and nothing gets better because there’s nothing to be done, and everyone is just miserable about it instead.”

“I don’t like it.”

John huffed a laugh, but while not exactly happy, it was a vast improvement on his last one. “No, I don’t think anyone does.” He let his head drop to Sherlock’s shoulder. After a moment, Sherlock mirrored him. John reached up to card his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “Neither of us can stop getting into the same stupid situations that are going to lead to the same awful choices, can we?” he said softly. “It’s what we do. We’d go mad if we were always safe.”

“Yes.” Sherlock breathed John in, his fingers tightening in his hair. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” John whispered. “I’m not, I just…” He sighed. “I just don’t like what it sometimes means.”

“Mm,” Sherlock agreed, and they sat in silence, breathing together. 

Sherlock didn’t want to think about it, so he kissed John, softly, and John responded like a drowning man—all desperate, grasping hands and red, wet eyes. His free hand gripped Sherlock’s shirt and was white-knuckled, immovable, as if he could keep him safe simply by holding on. His tongue was in Sherlock’s mouth, his other hand just as tight in his hair.

Sherlock pulled back reluctantly. “I’m relatively certain this is inappropriate timing,” he said quietly, “but I find myself _very much_ wanting to have sex with you.”

“Oh god, yes,” John said hoarsely, and they fell into each other. 

Sherlock lurched forward as John slid down to crouch with him, each with their knees pressed between the other’s, and Sherlock’s prick filled as it dragged up along John’s thigh. John yanked Sherlock’s shirt from his trousers, using the same movement to pull him flush against him; perfect. Close. Sherlock inhaled and dropped his head back, trying to pull him tighter. John moved up against him to reach his neck with his tongue, and Sherlock moaned and jerked the jumper over John’s head, then tugged his fly open. John bit down and struggled with Sherlock’s shirt.

“Rip it,” Sherlock suggested, his voice low, desperate for more contact.

John was clearly not as intelligent as he seemed because he shook his head. “This shirt is worth more than I am,” he objected, “for all that the holes aren’t large enough for the buttons. I’m not going to damage it.”

“Nothing is worth more than you are,” Sherlock told him, teeth at John’s ear, “and Mycroft buys my clothes. _Rip it_.”

John’s breath escaped him in a shuddering groan and he wrenched it apart, buttons flying. Sherlock gasped into his hair, letting go only long enough for John to pull it from him before he rocked back against him with a soft whimper. John’s hands were everywhere, making him sob and shiver, pulling open his trousers and then pulling _him_ , making him arch up into his hand and strain against him. He dragged his nails down John’s back, bit his ear, slid his hands down his pants and squeezed. John made an eager sound, needy and frantic, that went straight to Sherlock’s groin.

“Up,” Sherlock breathed, voice harsh, and they staggered upright, still entwined, before he slammed John into the wall and held him there, stripping his pants and trousers from him one handed before shucking his own. Then he took John’s knees and lifted.

“JESUS,” John yelped, grabbing him around the shoulders, “don’t you fucking drop me, you’ve already elbowed me in the solar plexus today, I can’t—“

“Shut up,” Sherlock growled, and John shut up, thumping his head back against the wall as Sherlock bent him double and ground up against him.

“I want,” Sherlock managed, “I want to be _inside you_.”

“Yes, _please_ ,” John panted, but then took a deep breath and leaned back as far as he was able against the wall to look at his face. It was difficult; his pulse was racing, pupils blown, breath coming in shallow pants already. “Wait, Sherlock, hold on. You’re sure?”

“Yes,” he assured him, and John’s eyes fluttered shut at the sound of his voice. 

“I, Christ, I meant it when I said there was no sex goalpost. We just—our first blowjob was just this morning. It’s not—we don’t need to—“

“I know we don’t.” Sherlock licked a long stripe up his neck and behind his ear, and John moaned loudly. “I want to.”

“Then yes, absolutely, yes.” John was making breathless little sounds between his words, and Sherlock couldn’t help nipping along his neck to bring out more. “We need…we need condoms. Gloves. Lube. Christ, we should already have something on, this is already risky.”

“I’m clean. I checked after my last overdose, years ago.”

“You’re _probably_ clean,” John told him, frustratingly rational when Sherlock was clearly frantic. “We end up spattered with blood too often to be sure. Last I tested, I was clean too. We should still get tested again.”

“Your room then. You keep supplies in the bedside table.”

“Right. Good,” John said. He ran his hands through Sherlock’s hair again, and he leaned into it, pressing up against him and holding him pinned with his own weight. “For god’s sake, though, let me down, I’m a grown man; you’re not carrying me upstairs. You’ll trip, and if I break something there will be no sex of any kind. You can bend me in half where I won’t snap my tailbone when we fall over.”

Sherlock chuckled, and rocked against him once more before releasing his knees. They made it, somehow, to the bedroom, knocking into everything in their path as they groped, kissed, and bit instead of focusing on a straight line, eventually falling into bed, laughing and breathless.

“Ouch, shit, that _hurt_.” John rubbed the back of his thigh where he’d caught the corner of a side-table with both of their combined weight behind him. Sherlock grinned and ducked his head to lick it, stretching John back and up, and the shorter man twisted his hands in the sheets and curled his hips, breathing fast. “You do… You know how to…”

“While I have not been on this side of the equation before,” Sherlock told him, taking a condom from the bedside drawer and rolling it on carefully, “this is not, in fact, my first time.”

“Right,” John said slowly, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he watched him try to come up with a tactful way to ask how, exactly, those other times had gone. “And how safe was it? Did you use gloves?”

“We didn’t, but it isn’t a difficult deduction that you, as a doctor, would ask for them.” Sherlock pulled on a disposable glove with the snap that always made John smile at crime scenes (it did now, too), and poured a generous amount of lubricant into his hand. “I realize you do not think much of Victor, but I do remember what hurt and what didn’t. I’m not going to misuse you.”

John curled further in a way that couldn’t have been comfortable, propped on his elbow, and reached out to comb his fingers into the curls at Sherlock’s temple. 

“I enjoy this,” he said softly. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not using me.”

Sherlock gave a small smile. “I know.” He trailed a slick finger down John’s cleft to circle his entrance, making him sigh. “How do you like it?” Sherlock pressed his thumb against him; John’s cock jumped, and Sherlock leaned closer to brush his lips against the new bruise on his thigh again.

“Slow at first,” John panted, falling back against the pillows. “Like that, oh bloody Christ.” Sherlock slid one finger in, gently, up to the first knuckle, then back out, and John cursed. He rubbed across the skin at the edge, then back in again, up just far enough to brush his finger against John’s prostate. 

John swore a blue streak, arching up, and Sherlock grinned. “Yes?” he asked, sliding out and back in again, curling his finger against the same spot and wringing more moans from him, pressing further each time.

“Fuck, yes, Jesus Sherlock, yes,” John was lifting, legs trembling, and Sherlock added a second finger. “Just…just like that, _please_.” 

Sherlock had enjoyed the blowjob _very much_ , but this was different. He had so much control, here, could make John sweat, beg…it was _fantastic_. Sherlock’s prick was rock hard, and he wasn’t even touching it. 

“I like you like this,” he purred, and John _whimpered_ , bucking against him when he scissored his fingers, “you could stop here, but it would nearly kill you.”

John, with great effort, stilled. “I can stop. Do you want to stop? I can stop.”

“No need,” Sherlock assured him, kissing his knee, “I know you can.”

“You’re sure,” John insisted, and Sherlock felt his lips curl up in what was surely a stupidly besotted smile. 

“Yes.” He added a third finger, now, and John made the most pornographic noise; it nearly had Sherlock coming right there. “I’m very, very sure.”

“Good,” was all John could verbalize at that point, and Sherlock’s smile broke into a full predatory smirk. “Then Christ, Sherlock, _please_.”

Sherlock pulled his fingers out, smoothed more lubricant over his prick, and stripped off the glove. “Please _what_ ,” he asked, still grinning.

John’s eyes opened and he grinned back, the wolf staring out at him behind pupils so wide there was only a thin ring of blue around them. “ _Fuck me_ ,” he growled, fisting a hand in Sherlock’s hair. “Put your dick in me and _move_.” 

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock breathed, and slid forward slowly, pressing into him; tight, hot, and slick.

It was _amazing_ , no wonder Victor had enjoyed it so much.

“Still slow?” he gasped, voice cracking.

“ _No_ ,” John caught another handful of Sherlock’s hair and pulled him down firmly to bite his shoulder and growl in his ear, “ _Fuck me_.”

Sherlock managed a strangled sound in the back of his throat and thrust, hard, slamming John into the headboard, and the headboard into the wall, with a loud bang. John shouted, hands raking gouges into his shoulders. Sherlock tightened his grip on John’s hips and rocked forward roughly again, pressing more bruises into his skin, stretching John’s knees nearly to his own ears.

“Fuck, Sherlock, like that,” John cried, pushing back against him, and Sherlock surged forward again, hitting the bedframe against the wall repeatedly. The tiny part of Sherlock’s brain left thinking anything but _John_ hoped the plaster would crack like the glass in the bathroom, that they would eventually leave marks of their sexual relationship around the entire flat obvious enough for even the Yard to see the next time they invaded.

They were both sweat-slick, drenched, salty where they bit and kissed and licked, straining against each other, muscles trembling and overworked. John let go of him to reach a hand down to stroke himself, and Sherlock batted his hand away.

“Let me,” he hissed, low, pulling gently, and John’s cries ratcheted up another decibel and he came, sobbing Sherlock’s name loud enough to hurt his ears. He pumped, John clenching spasmodically around him, and came right after, groaning, falling into him. John’s knees slipped from his shoulders, and Sherlock groped blindly to hold the condom on when he pulled slowly back out of him, tying a knot in it and throwing it in the wastebasket with the glove he’d used earlier.

“Nngf,” John said into his shoulder. Sherlock laughed and rolled off, flopping down into the ruined sheets. He left his legs tangled with John’s, and a hand on his hip.

“You are naturally more aggressive in bed than you allow yourself to be around me,” Sherlock said when his mind stopped whirling, breathing still short and fast.

John snorted. “I’m however I want to be in bed,” he said sleepily, wiping semen from his stomach with a corner of the bed sheet.

“Mm. But you are consistently submissive unless I am physically above you and in a position of control,” Sherlock pressed. “You wait until I’m wild with it before you try to exert any control yourself.” John shrugged.

“You don’t like feeling vulnerable, and I don’t mind.” He yawned, sliding a leg over Sherlock’s. “It’s all fine.”

“Hm,” Sherlock replied vaguely, but he tightened his grip lightly and John brought his hand up to rest over his. He listened to John’s breathing even out as he fell asleep, and eventually Sherlock’s did as well.

***

Sherlock woke—stiff, slightly sticky, and enormously smug—to the sound of John’s mobile. John groaned, groped for it blindly, and dragged it under the covers.

“’Lo?” he mumbled, sluggish, and Sherlock grinned and squirmed against him, deliciously sleepy and comfortable. Waking in the same bed with John was enormously enjoyable when he was so warm, touchable, and very, very naked, with the knowledge that carnal relations had taken place mere hours ago, and with the delightful possibility that they might again at any moment. Sherlock nuzzled close, and John laughed softly and snuck an arm around him. “Watson here.”

There was a voice on the other end, and Sherlock did his drowsy best to distract John from it, dropping kisses in his hair and on his face; John tried hard not to laugh, pushing him away without much force.

Then, of course, because they could never once just be happy about something without something smashing everything to pieces, John suddenly froze, tensed, and said, “you unbelievable _bastard_. So you called _me_?” He sat up, suddenly furious, hissing into the phone. “Yeah, I agree, it _did_ backfire abysmally last time when you came by in person. Clearly calling his fucking handler and getting me to shepherd him in instead is—yes of course he’s right here, I’m not—as if he wouldn’t figure it out in a second even if I did try to keep it from him!” There was a silence as John listened and Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Lestrade then, calling in a favor with John to get Sherlock to do something. “Yes. Yes. Fine, you son of a bitch, we’ll be there, well done you for threatening a friend. Yes. Yes that was absolutely a threat! _Fuck you_ ” 

John pressed the end button on his mobile with enough force Sherlock was slightly concerned it would crack, rubbed his face with his hands, and said “we need to get dressed and go to the station. Answer some _questions_.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said, “I’m a suspect again, then.” 

John threw off the covers, and enraged as he was, Sherlock felt minorly cheered watching him stalk nude around the room. “Apparently there’s something that points to you, and Anderson threw a shit fit over it and got it pushed through with the higher ups.”

“It wouldn’t take much of a fit,” Sherlock mused. “It’s not as though I’m particularly well liked by the majority of law enforcement, really, especially after making them look so poorly after I came back.”

“Don’t forget when I chinned the chief superintendent,” John added, flexing his hand at the memory. “Might not have been my cleverest moment, there.”

“I remember that moment. It was one of your best,” Sherlock assured him, and John stopped pacing and laughed, shoulders dropping a bit and the lines across his brow easing. 

“That’s you in a nutshell, Sherlock, I can’t honestly tell if that was a compliment or an insult,” he smiled, put his hands on his hips, and let out a deep breath. 

“Oh no.” Sherlock cocked his head admiringly—John was still entirely without any clothing. “That was definitely a compliment. I don’t suppose I’ll get a chance to see you do it today as well?”

“Christ, I hope not.” John laughed, which had been Sherlock’s intention, and tried to flatten his hair back down. “Alright, lets get dressed. You should wear something comfortable; one of us is probably going to end up in jail.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a terribly, terribly boring tumblr now: [aggressivewhenstartled.tumblr.com](http://aggressivewhenstartled.tumblr.com/). So far it has:
> 
>   * A sorta sexy snippet up from chapter 5
>   * Reblogged Johnlock drawings
>   * Feminist stuff
> 



	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I don't actually know anything about police work outside of TV, which means that any and all of the assumptions of how they act I make in this chapter are likely horribly, hideously wrong. If you know better than me, tell me!
> 
> UPDATE: thank you AislinCade, who pointed out a few things I could make better about police work this chapter-- I actually used a line directly from your suggestions! :)

“Did I say ‘get tarted up’? No. No, I said wear something comfortable. When you’re ruining your best frock lying in a jail cell, don’t complain to me, I won’t be listening,” John groused as he pushed open the door to the station.

Sherlock made a dismissive noise and smiled like a shark; he was dressed as well and as expensively as he could be without wearing a tuxedo. “I am much more comfortable when I can intimidate the Yard with suits worth their salaries.” John only rolled his eyes in response and didn’t bother to hold the door for him.

John always felt better about frustrating situations when there was something to nag Sherlock about, so he left him to it. It didn’t actually bother John what Sherlock wore, so it didn’t bother Sherlock that he complained. It made him feel better to be fussed over, and made John feel better to fuss; no downsides, really. And it was good to begin this on a high note, as John was already fighting flashbacks from the last time Sherlock had been officially accused of the very crime he was investigating. 

Lestrade came out to meet them, looking guilty, followed by a joyful Anderson and a neutral Donovan. Sherlock curled his upper lip. “Sherlock,” Lestrade tried, “this way, please.”

Sherlock snorted. “Really Lestrade? Are we going to an interrogation room? Just ask me where I was since you saw me last. It’s not as though this needs to be a long conversation. If you had found any of your so-called evidence in the files Sally’s been pouring over, I’d have been asked in long before this; you have a new murder, a brand new one, and it’s been done to make me look guilty.” He cocked his head and brought a hand to his chin, mockingly thoughtful. “Right after I caught on to the truth about your vexing murder ring, what _interesting_ timing! Do you think there might be a coincidence?”

“Sherlock,” Greg said, warningly.

Sherlock ignored him. “The yard has a chatty constable somewhere, I have an admirer, and you are wasting your time.”

“Look,” Greg sighed, “it wasn’t just a witness who saw someone in your coat, Sherlock. And if you’re right, and someone’s been talking to the wrong person, then I’d rather not yell about it to the entire department!”

Sherlock stayed where he was. “I’d rather have it out right here, actually, instead of tucked away into a room somewhere. I’m well acquainted with how easily rumors spread, as should you be; this whole thing is, after all, tediously familiar. And guess what? I didn’t do it this time, either. How dreadfully disappointing for you.”

Lestrade lost a bit of the guilt and started to look frustrated instead. It was a vast improvement. “You think I’m happy about this? Sherlock—“

“You can drop your wounded pride act, we have DNA proof you were on the scene.” Anderson interjected, and Lestrade turned sharply to glare at him. “Not so clever now, are you? Didn’t check to make sure you didn’t leave anything behind when she pulled a bit of your hair out? Having too much fun getting away with murder, I suppose.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “DNA evidence before the night is through? Goodness, you and your friends _were_ excited to arrest me, weren’t you? Not very conclusive evidence, though, was it, since the few roots that were attached were quite old. They’d have to be. The sort you would find in a hairbrush, not the kind that had been pulled bloody from someone’s head the same night. Am I wrong?” 

Anderson looked sour, a clear affirmation, not that Sherlock needed it. “Are you saying your hair magically migrated from your brush to the victim’s fist?”

“Nothing under her fingernails, of course,” Sherlock continued, unmoved. “Odd really, if she was pulling at my hair you’d think she would have scratched my face, but nothing under her nails. Don’t bother accusing me of cleaning them before I left her, somehow missing the hair, you can see now that I’ve no scratch marks on my face at all.”

“I have DNA evidence and a witness who saw your coat, Sherlock, you can’t weasel your way out of this one—“

“Anderson, shut the hell up before I send you home,” Lestrade interrupted, voice raised. “Sherlock. Fine. Where were you last night?”

“He was at home with me,” John said angrily, and oh, Sherlock hadn’t been paying attention; John was usually content to let Sherlock handle his own battles, but he’d been steadily growing more and more furious as the argument went on. Sherlock felt something warm curl in his stomach. “All night. Mrs Hudson would have heard us come in, too. Can we leave, now?”

“Of course you’d give him an alibi, but that’s not good enough, especially since you can keep your stories straight when you’re standing right next to each other delivering them,” Anderson sneered.

“You’re the arsehole who started this here with us together, Anderson!” John shouted, and everyone within earshot had pretty much given up even pretending to work and had their eyes on the real life procedural drama unfolding in front of them. “Would you like to send someone down to Baker Street to chat with Mrs Hudson then, before we get a chance to discuss it with her? You know, like a goddamn policeman doing his real fucking job?”

There was silence. It was amazing how the average mind forgot things that didn’t fit—that John had assaulted an officer the last time this had happened, for instance, or that he’d taken down a man almost twice his size right in the station just last month. No, the kindly little jumper-wearing sheepdog had just had a minor explosion and everyone was shocked. Ridiculous. Sherlock barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes.

“You—even—even if you’re telling the truth, Sherlock’s bloody sneaky, isn’t he?” Anderson stuttered obstinately. “You don’t know he was in his bed all night. He could easily have slipped out and back in! How would you know?”

“Because he wasn’t _in_ his bed last night, he was in _mine_ , fucking my brains out!” John bellowed. 

You could have heard a pin drop. Apparently Sally hadn’t shared the news, then. All eyes went to Sherlock, who tucked his hands in his pockets, rolled his shoulders back, and met them with a slow, smug grin that spread across his face until he thought the top of his head might fall off.

“We can’t actually check that part with Mrs Hudson, John,” Greg said quietly, and John—beautiful, brilliant, livid John—rounded on him next.

“Your DNA evidence is clearly planted, and the only way you could make it stick with Mrs Hudson’s and my testimony is if you managed to pack the jury with idiots with a grudge, like your miserable excuse for a forensics expert here!” 

Anderson protested, but no one was paying him attention anymore; this was turning out to be more eventful than daytime telly. Sex, drama, fights—all it needed, really, was a secret baby. And John was nowhere near finished; he was only ramping up now that his attention was on Lestrade. Clearly, Sherlock thought, John was still fuming over the last time Sherlock had been arrested, and at the awful mess that followed. 

“What does Sherlock have to do?” John yelled, advancing on Lestrade. “How many criminals does he have to catch for you, how many times does he have to prove his innocence, how much does he have to fucking _bleed_ for you, you _son of a bitch_ , for you to believe in him? For you to stand up for him when this shit happens?”

“I do fucking stand up for him!” Greg shouted, “Why the hell do you think he’s not under arrest?”

“You mean like _last time_?” John hollered, “Last time when you brought ten people to handcuff him and slam him up against a fucking police car, when Sally and your damn superintendent stood around in _our flat_ afterwards gloating about it? Great help there! And then he jumped off a roof _for you too_ , you thankless _dick_.”

“My hands were goddamned tied, John, I did everything I could!”

“You clearly didn’t, because _last I looked you still kept your fucking job_.”

“Is John this loud when you’re shagging, too?” Sally asked Sherlock, and the fight came to a sudden screeching halt as everyone stared at her instead.

John looked like he was going to tear into her as soon as he recovered enough to close his mouth, but Sherlock grinned, following her line of thought easily. “Yes. He shouts my name, too.”

“Then Mrs Hudson definitely heard. Probably the tenants next door, too.” She shrugged. “I’ll head over and ask them about it. But it’s pretty clear you were home last night—just stay here long enough for me to make sure everything checks out.”

Anderson looked betrayed, Greg and John looked stunned, and everyone else looked like they had hoped the fight would last longer. “Sally,” Sherlock said, “I’ve never liked you, but I have never been as inclined towards possibly doing so as I am right now.”

“Eugh, don't, I’ll start vomiting and John will scratch my eyes out,” Sally told him. “Stop your boyfriend yelling and let everyone here get back to work, you cocky prick. I’m off to bother your neighbors and get their belated noise complaints.”

***

“We’re off the investigation, obviously,” Sherlock drawled later, sitting in Lestrade’s office.

“Obviously,” Lestrade agreed, rolling his eyes, pretending to pay attention to his paperwork. “And you’re going to rush in anyway and muck up all my crime scenes as soon as I let you go. Obviously.”

“Which would rarely be considered crime scenes unless I did, since you can’t seem to find them unless there’s a corpse left lying about as a flashing neon sign.”

Anderson had finally gathered his wits enough to insist John and he be separated, so Sherlock _really_ ought to be in a cell somewhere, but Lestrade was bending the rules because he felt guilty. John was in a conference room with Anderson, which was a terrible idea. He said as much, and Lestrade responded by asking him if he ever shut up.

“Only when you wish I wouldn’t,” Sherlock drawled. “Anderson is going to be antagonistic at John, as he always is, and it will push my ‘boyfriend’, as you are condescendingly labeling him in your mind, into assault of an officer again. As thrilled as I would be, I’d rather not have the embarrassment of my bailing him out—he does so hate it when our roles are reversed.”

Lestrade only snorted. “John is only violent once you and your insane plots and dramas push him as far as he can go,” he told him. “Otherwise he packs it all down and is sarcastic at most. Now that you’re not in the room egging the two of them on, they’ll calm down and just sit about glaring daggers at each other. Anderson might try to bug him into saying something he shouldn’t, but I’ve seen John stonewall when he’s angry—he looks like he wants to rip your ears off, but he just sits and stares at you. He’s not a violent man, at heart.”

Of the first Sherlock had no doubt; now that the situation was nearing solution, John would do nothing to compromise it. Still, “I’m surprised at you, Lestrade. I’d have thought you’d agree; isn’t what we do when pushed as far as we can go what we are, ‘at heart’?”

Lestrade was lost for words. “John doesn’t… John isn’t like that. He’s a good man.”

Sherlock glanced out the glass towards the rest of the station; he couldn’t see John, but he felt the need to check on his direction every so often anyway. Sentiment. 

“You are partially correct,” he allowed, “John is a good man. But John is exactly like that; he _likes_ being pushed as far as he can go.” He turned back to Lestrade. “It’s why he hangs about with me. Haven’t you noticed how often we’re found with the suspect trussed, bruised, and held under his heel? You think he’s a sheepdog, but he’s a wolf. I give it an an outlet.”

“John hangs around with you because he completely adores you, but you’re a fucking disaster waiting to happen,” Lestrade snapped back. “He’s not one of those ‘wolves’ you keep chasing, he _is_ a goddamn sheepdog, and he is taking care of the one idiot goat that keeps wandering off into the woods. If he has to beat those wolves off, it’s not because he likes beating wolves, it’s because the goat walks right up to them and bites them on the nose. And then the poor man has to deal with the damn goat treating him like shit, running off his friends and throwing his things out the window.”

“I feel you have stretched my metaphor a bit far,” Sherlock said after a moment. “And I only threw his things out of the window once.”

“Twice.”

“Once or twice,” he allowed, dismissive. “John is one of the wolves, Lestrade. Just because he doesn’t indiscriminately glory in his violence doesn’t mean he’s tame, like you are. Wild animals are dangerous, but they rarely attack unless they feel they need to.”

Sally chose that moment to come in, and she made a face and snorted. “Yeah, tame, that’s definitely what everyone calls Greg. Like a kitten. Which is so very different from John, who curls up next to you and practically fucking purrs when you pay him attention.”

“I’m sorry, the Met’s difficulty mixing metaphors has me confused; is John a human, a sheepdog, or a cat now?” Sherlock sneered. “I assume we are free to go?”

Sally raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. Mrs Turner’s married ones offer their congratulations on what sounds like a stellar time, by the way, and asked that you make sure not to crack any of the adjoining walls like you were trying to last night.”

“It _was_ a ‘stellar time’, Sally. John is _incredibly_ talented.” Sherlock leaned back in his chair and gave her a wide, dark grin. “Such a pity you’ve been forced to imagine it. I rather think it must be burning an image in your brain. A miniature, of course, since there _is_ limited surface area there.”

“Yeah? John’s a fit bloke; if I don’t think too much about you, I can’t say I mind too much,” Sally shot back. Sherlock’s grin dropped off his face and he was suddenly _livid_ with jealousy. She smiled. “Ooh, didn’t like that one much, did you? I do so like the taken ones, as you’ve pointed out. Maybe I’ll have a go of it.”

“John rarely had time for anyone but me _before_ I was shattering the plaster with his back,” Sherlock snarled, “you are hardly going to entice him away now.”

“You say that, but you’re afraid,” Sally hissed, “which is why you’re so angry at me.”

“Christ, it’s like secondary school all over again.” Greg stood, glaring at them. “Shut it before John comes in and knocks your heads together, and apparently howls at the moon before rolling over for a belly rub, according to the two of you. Sherlock, Sally has never had any interest whatsoever in John, and you’re right, John has absolutely no interest in anyone but you.”

“That’s true,” John said at the doorway, startling them. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Next Anderson would wander in and interrupt, then the whole of Scotland Yard. Was Mycroft lurking about to ridicule his personal observations as well? “What’s this about howling and belly rubs?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” he snapped, took John by the arm, and dragged him out. 

“Bit hard giving John scritches around his ears when his ankles are in the way, I bet,” Sally called after them. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something cutting, he hadn’t decided what yet, but John stopped dead and turned.

“Sally Donovan,” John said calmly, and everyone froze. This was his Captain John Watson voice again, and Sherlock _loved_ it. “You don’t enjoy being sexually harassed. I don’t either.”

Sally flushed. “I…right.” 

John nodded, turned back to Sherlock, and continued down the hallway.

Sherlock smirked. “I find myself very interested in sexually harassing you right now,” he told him. John turned his head a bit, smiling.

“No you aren’t. But I know what you mean.” He laughed and bumped up against Sherlock’s shoulder. “Let’s get home. You’re going to wring me dry within the week. Interesting for a man who told me he never wants to have sex.”

“I encountered new data,” Sherlock told him, distracted, then frowned.

“What?” John asked.

“I believe I know where our next classes are being held,” Sherlock said slowly, and John straightened. “Stay casual; we’re off the investigation, and if we let the Yard know now we’ll never get to see it.”

“We’re not walking into an entire room full of serial killers without—“

Sherlock made a dismissive sound. “Don’t be an idiot. There was just a murder last night, and most people can’t reliably call a book club together two months in a row, much less something that requires this level of risk and secrecy. It will be empty today, we’ll have a look about, and if we find anything we shall call Lestrade immediately, I promise.”

“Hm,” John replied, not quite believing him, but he kept his mouth shut and strolled out like they weren’t going to break into a murderous butcher site in a few hours, which was really all that mattered.

***

“Really? An _actual butcher’s_? Are you sure? I thought you said he was clever. Isn’t a butcher the first thing the police would suspect with cuts like that?” John was rubbing his arms—it was a bit colder than it had been that morning, and they’d been loitering in the alley for quite a while. John was feeling the chill in his shoulder, but wasn’t complaining. Best to finish this up quickly, then.

“Of course. It’s why I initially dismissed the idea, regardless of everything pointing to it.” Sherlock shrugged and pulled out his lock picks; John turned and kept watch without being asked. “But, really, the data kept building up. And as long as there was nothing left to link _this_ butcher shop, well, it wasn’t too terrible of a risk, was it? It’s not as if the police go about questioning every butcher in the city on the off chance they catch one with a human ear or what have you in plain sight.”

“Fair point,” John conceded, and the lock clicked as Sherlock ducked in. The shop was closed—they often were, on a Sunday in the early evening, and he’d made sure there would be no one about when they broke in. “But why actually have the classes here? That’s ridiculously risky.”

“But without the risk, where’s the fun?” Sherlock countered, pulling out his torch and swinging it leisurely about. “He needed to drain them to make sure the cuts showed well for a large audience. Where better to do it than here? And he can drop everything and run if he needs to, of course. He won’t have very close ties or much invested in the shop; he’ll be getting his real income from all those interested half-wits, desperate to learn without the effort of figuring everything out themselves.”

“Of course,” John echoed, closing the door behind them. “Gosh, don’t we all wish the youth of today would put a bit more effort into the trial and error of violent crime.” He pulled out his own light. “Personally, I don’t see much fun in murdering and slicing up young women I don’t even know, regardless of the risk, but fine.”

“What if you knew them?” Sherlock mused, eyes beginning to adjust to the dark of the back room, and John snorted.

“Even less, then,” John told him, then stilled. “Oh,” he managed.

There was a soft scuff of fabric, and a very muffled sob.

“Oh dear,” Sherlock whispered, turning his torch to follow John’s to the terrified young lady tied, drugged, and gagged in the corner, “it seems the group as a whole has a bit more determination that I had given them credit for. Nearly that of a knitting club.”

“Sherlock,” John snapped, running forward with his pocketknife out, “shut up. Make sure they’re not here while I get her loose, and lets get out.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock agreed. He turned abruptly, caught a flash of movement, and dodged. Lucky, as the blunt force coming his way hit the ridge of his eyebrow rather than the soft spot at his temple, but it was enough to take him down.

“ _Shit_ ,” he heard John say, and he couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment through the stars bursting in his vision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry they'll be ok. :D


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been enormously busy this week, and wasn't sure I'd be able to update at all! This chapter hasn't been edited as much as I usually do, and it's also a bit shorter than usual-- sorry!

Sherlock’s head hurt _abominably_ , and his eyes stung from blood running into them, blinding him. There was a sharp jolt to his knees as they hit the cement and his head exploded in bright pain again when it hit…something, either the wall or the floor. He couldn’t be certain which, with the sweeping wave of nausea and dizziness flooding his senses.

There was a curse and a shrill scream to his left, dazzling him with pain again, before it was suddenly cut off by a sharp slap of flesh on flesh, accompanied by a wet crunch. Someone scrabbled against the wall, scuffed his shoes in a way that implied there was little weight on them, slowed, and stilled, then fell with a thud. 

He brought his fingers up—down? Over? Unclear—to the tender, burning, wet lump upsettingly near his left temple.

“Stop that.”

John’s hands on him—oh, so welcome—but he hissed and drew back involuntarily when they touched his head, but John’s grip was firm and unyielding on the back of his scalp as he carefully wiped the blood from Sherlock’s eyes with the sleeve of his jumper. Someone had turned on the lights at some point; they were bright enough he had to shut his eyes again. There were two men lying on the floor, but Sherlock didn’t focus clearly enough to see what injuries they’d sustained.

“Hey.” John whispered. “We’re going to have more trouble, soon, if we all stay here. Can you get up?” John’s arm was bleeding and his sleeve was cut; knife wound, painful but not overly concerning. His lip was split and trickling red down his chin, he had a wide scrape across his cheek, and he was going to have an extraordinary black eye the next day. Since the two men had been armed and ready for murder, it was impressive he was as intact as he was.

John Watson and his ferocious, beautiful viciousness. Sherlock smiled, but stopped when his head screamed at him. “No. I don’t want to move.”

“I know. Come on.” John carded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair on the uninjured side of his head; he pressed a soft kiss where it wasn’t sticky with blood. “I’ll call Sally soon, but we need to leave. Try for me. I can’t carry two.”

“You’re a wolf,” Sherlock mumbled, gripping John’s shoulder as the world tried to slip sideways. “Not tame. Beautiful.”

John smiled at him and heaved him up, clearly unhappy about moving but not having much choice. “Yep. Definitely a concussion.”

“You bite,” Sherlock slurred, “but not me.”

“Nope,” John agreed, “not unless you ask. Come on then, lets get you medical attention.”

“Ask. Yes. Bite me,” Sherlock complied, and John gave a surprised laugh. 

“You’re a nutter when you’re not concussed, but damn if head trauma doesn’t bring it out even more,” he said fondly, and propped him against the wall to turn his attention to the terrified girl on the floor. She was drugged and almost senseless, but John spoke to her much the same way he had Sherlock (sans the kissing, of course). It made Sherlock slightly, irrationally, jealous. He stared at the light detritus in the corner (grass, dust, and other debris had been tracked in, but the room was kept quite clean, overall) and tried not to think about it.

“I’m going to pick you up now, sweetheart, because we have to get away. It will be alright.” He hefted her carefully over his shoulder, half-knelt to get the other shoulder (the wounded one) under Sherlock’s arm, and staggered to his feet. “Oof, you two aren’t doing me any favors here. Where are you keeping all that extra weight, Sherlock, a lead arm?”

“Muscle mass,” Sherlock snapped, displeased. “None of those lighter extra fat deposits like you have around your waist.” John laughed at him, tucked a quick kiss behind his ear, and maneuvered them out the door.

They stumbled two blocks before collapsing in the back room of a restaurant to ring the Yard. Sally responded immediately, arriving only ten minutes later. She was not as pleased at one might have hoped, considering they had just rescued a soon-to-be murder victim. Sherlock listened, vaguely, to her conversation with John, but he was having trouble concentrating.

“You know Watson, your ‘self defense’ once the Freak gets in too deep tends to be disturbingly brutal,” she warned. 

John shrugged. “What would you suggest? Two armed assailants, Sherlock unable to run, a drugged hostage in the corner. I couldn’t let them go to get anyone else, and I couldn’t get us all away from them. I settled for unconscious, and I did it as quickly and painlessly as possible.”

“Quick, maybe,” Sally said, unconvinced. “You smashed the first guy’s wrist _and_ his elbow, and emergency services says a bit more force to that shattered nose on the second would have slid it right up into the brain and killed him.”

“I pulled back just in time,” John told her, baring his teeth in a wide smile. “Didn’t want anything keeping me from the ambulance with Sherlock.”

“Hm,” Sally said thoughtfully. Police lights flashed too brightly behind her, and Sherlock hid his face against John’s shoulder. “Your other half’s touchy when he’s been hit in the head, isn’t he?”

“Nah, he’s always like this. You saw him in the flat. He just doesn’t usually do it outside.” Sherlock felt John smile into his hair. “Although you’re right, the concussion doesn’t help. There doesn’t seem to be anything too wrong that painkillers and rest won’t help, but I’d like to get him to the hospital for tests just in case, if you’re done?”

“Yeah,” Sally allowed, “I’m done.” She hesitated, then said, “It’s strange, isn’t it? How little people know you?”

John looked up from levering a shoulder under his flatmate’s arm. “Hm?”

She gestured at the two of them. “Everyone at the yard seems to think you’re in charge,” she clarified, “Which is odd by itself. But somehow they all seem to think that of the two of you, _he’s_ the dangerous one.”

John paused. “You don’t think he’s dangerous? That’s news. I thought you were still sure he was going to eventually run off on a mad killing spree.”

Sally looked wary. “If Sherlock ever decides to go off the deep end, he’ll play games. He’ll need to show everyone how clever he is. It would give us a chance, however small, of getting him, or at least getting away. But you?” She shrugged. “I’d rather go up against Sherlock, frankly. You wouldn’t hesitate; you’d kill me quick and quiet before I got a word out.”

John narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been awfully nice recently if you’ve suddenly decided that we’re _both_ murderers.”

Sally shrugged. “I’m not as worried about it anymore. You’re a soldier, which means you’re a killer—we all already knew that. Still, if Sherlock loses it, you’d notice.”

“And you’re sure I’d tell you.”

“No.” Sally hadn’t slept much more than John had, recently, and she rubbed her eyes and pulled herself up with more help from the side of the ambulance than she normally would have needed. “Sherlock would be dead the same day you found out. But then, so would you. We wouldn’t know about it until someone found your bodies. Murder-suicide, and I’d probably be the only one who understood why it happened.”

John felt sick. “You put a lot of faith in me,” he said uncertainly, and Sally laughed.

“No,” she said again. “I really don’t. He’s in charge, but only because you let him be.”

***

John fussed over Sherlock the entire way to the hospital, the entire wait at the hospital, through all of the tests at the hospital, and then the entire way back home. Sherlock’s head hurt, he was wrapped up in bandages and gauze like an invalid, and John had told the simpletons in scrubs at the hospital not to give him any opiates or other addictive pain medications, which was all of the ones that would have been even a slight help against the migraine thumping in his ears. Sherlock was, to put it lightly, in a bad mood.

“Stop bustling around like a frantic hen,” he hissed, wanting to shout but wincing at any sound above a whisper. “If you’re so concerned, I would much rather have a strong dose of morphine than your endless supply of blankets and pillows!” 

“You say that like you haven’t built yourself a fluffy nest of them all to burrow into,” John teased, tucking another around him like a deranged nanny. “And you’re not getting any drugs.”

“I’m not your sister,” Sherlock sulked. “I’m not tottering on the edge of sobriety at every waking moment.”

“And we’re going to keep it that way,” John responded evenly. It was easy for John to say; he had received plenty of painkillers when he’d gotten _his_ stitches done. John sat on the edge of the mounds of duvets and cushions to lean in, clearly intent on kissing him above his wound, and Sherlock made an angry noise and swatted at him feebly. 

The patronizing cretin just laughed and moved out of the way. Sherlock growled weakly and groped for something on the bedside table to throw at him, but the attempt was halfhearted at best.

“I’ll let you sleep then,” John said warmly, heading for the door; Sherlock scrambled up, and was blinded by a spike of agony for his troubles. He fell back into the feathered, quilted mess he’d made of the bed with a piteous groan.

“What? No. Where are you going?” he managed, muffled, and he could just _hear_ John rolling his eyes. 

“Well, you’re swatting at me and about to start lobbing alarm clocks, so I was going to leave you alone,” John explained, completely unreasonably. “Do you want me to stay, or do you want me to go? You have to pick one.”

“I don’t want to pick one,” he whined. 

John laughed at him again and settled into bed with him, finally kissing him gently, hands cupping Sherlock’s face and holding him like he was breakable. He wasn’t, but in John’s defense Sherlock’s head felt as though it was at the moment. He grumbled a bit, but his heart wasn’t in it, and eventually he fell asleep in John’s lap, John’s hand in his hair.

***

“Do you want the good news, or the bad news first?”

Sherlock came awake slowly, muzzy, and to what continued to be a dazzling headache that made him want to set the world on fire. “What?” he moaned, “why? Why are you talking? What did I do? Why are you punishing me?”

“The good news,” John told him, apparently needing no input from Sherlock, “is that Sally has caught what looks like almost the entirety of your murder circle, so your head trauma isn’t in vain.”

“I don’t care.” Sherlock tried to block out John’s voice with a pillow at each ear. “Shut up. Your voice is like a siren. A boring, annoying, pedantic siren.”

“ _I’m_ pedantic?” John raised his eyebrows, then continued as if Sherlock hadn’t even spoken. “The bad news is there’s no sign of the teacher. Sally’s not questioning his existence; apparently everyone is too terrified to say anything about him, but they’re too stupid to lie well, and the holes in their stories paint a pretty good picture. But she doesn’t have any idea where he might be.” Sherlock whimpered, and John reached under the bedding and rubbed his back. Sherlock permitted it, but only because he was so miserable.

“You’re still _talking_ , why are you doing this to me? Is it because I used the tea to insulate the exothermic chemical reaction I was experimenting with last week? Is that why you won’t give me any drugs and shout at me while I am clearly on the brink of death by ice picks through my ears?”

“You’re not on the brink of death, and you aren’t getting any painkillers because you’re a complete idiot who thought illegal, dangerous life-killers would be a fun experiment.” 

“It was an immensely fun experiment,” Sherlock told him sulkily, “it was the withdrawal, addiction, and overdoses that were the problem.”

“Yeah,” John said, lips pursed, “that attitude right there? That is why you’re not getting any morphine.”

“You hate me.” Sherlock clawed pathetically at the sheets. “It’s the only available explanation for why you would put me through this.”

“I love you,” John corrected, “you whinging, mad idiot.” Sherlock gave a frustrated, glottal noise, and John rested a hand on the back of his neck. “Go back to sleep. I just thought you would want to know.”

“You’re still _talking_.” Sherlock complained, and John gave him a pat and left. Sherlock relaxed into the blessed peace for a moment, then, “wait. John. John!” The last shout had been a mistake; glass shards were making their way through his brain and out his eyeballs, from the feel of it.

“What? Sherlock?” John rushed back in, worried, and Sherlock waved his hand at him, frustrated.

“ _Shut. Up_ ,” he growled, clutching his head. “Why don’t you ever just _shut up_?”

“I wasn’t even humming out there!” John protested, looking put out. “Have you just called me in to yell at me more?”

“No, John, _shut up_ , I need to think and you are stabbing knives into my brain—“

“I was making a bloody cuppa! All the knives are safe in their drawers, tempting as they are at the moment— “

“The grass, John, there was grass next to the planned victim, why was there grass? The butcher’s was spotless; it would have to be, to keep the DNA evidence at bay.” Sherlock opened his eyes wide and grinned. “The teacher tracked in grass when she brought the girl in.”

“Grass.” John looked unconvinced. “Sherlock, you had a very serious blow to the head, and—“

“Don’t patronize me, I’m lightyears more clever than you even with a minor brain injury,” Sherlock snapped. John rolled his eyes. “It was a very specific grass, not native, and I’m almost absolutely certain I’ve seen it before.” He grinned. “The crying witness. She was a landscape designer and interior decorator, and she was clutching the decorative grasses like they were her only child.”

“Yes, because you were terrorizing her.” John paused. “Wait. Her? She’s the butcher? Are you sure she’s not just another student?”

“She’s clearly not; Look at where the grass traces are: behind, under, and around the victim. She was the one who brought the girl into the room, and did you see the knots and the way she was tied? Masterful.” John looked displeased, and Sherlock waved his concern away. “Yes, yes, don’t fret, you’re still the prettiest, John. In any event, we need to go back to the building she was placing them in and look them over again.” John snorted and pulled out his mobile. Sherlock cocked his head. “What are you doing?”

John glanced up. “I’m texting Sally to let her know to meet us there.”

Sherlock made a face. “We hardly need her help. No one will be there, and we’ll be done in a moment.”

“That’s what you said last time,” John pointed out, unbending, “and you got a concussion. Now you have a concussion and want to run after the murderer again; I think we’re going to ask for police escort, thanks.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, this is the last full chapter, but I'm thinking people are going to want a sexytimes epilogue, so I'm putting it at a final 11 chapters.
> 
> Do you? Do you want a sexytimes epilogue? DO YOU?
> 
> Also: in this chapter there is a hand weeder, which [looks like this](http://wilkinsonsword-tools.co.uk/Stainless-Steel-Hand-Weeder-Wilkinson-Sword).

Sally was taking _forever_ , which normally wouldn’t be an issue. Sherlock, generally, would rather she weren’t present at any of his regular activities.

Unfortunately, John had flatly refused to enter the office building the witness/serial-killer had been decorating last without at least one officer of the law present, which was ridiculous; there would be no one inside. The building had only once been a drop site for a body, not a killing ground, and there was clearly no one there. It was relatively small, only three stories, and what they could see of it from the outside was a maze of small, darkened rooms, crammed with cubicles and surrounded by tall, revealing windows; hardly the best place for a murder.

John was proving impervious to logic, however, so they remained on the steps leading up, kicking their heels. Maddening.

Finally, _finally_ , Sally pulled up, apparently having gone to obtain the key to the building through lawful means before dawdling about staring out the window for what felt like half the day. This was why he had never included Lestrade; legal channels were _excruciating_. Really, he could have picked the lock and been inside _hours_ ago. He was surrounded by incompetents and nannies.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Sally asked John when he’d explained what they would be doing, “He has a concussion and he wants us to wander around a warren of paper plant offices taking samples of grass.”

“You’ve searched for it enough in our flat already; you should be old hat by now,” Sherlock snapped, “although this location actually _has_ what we’re looking for in it, so you might surprise yourself by actually finding something.” 

Sally gave him a look. “The only reason we can’t find illegal substances in your flat is because John’s found them first and thrown them all out,” she accused. Since that was exactly the case, Sherlock gave her his haughtiest glare and ignored her.

“I’m pretty sure he’s actually on to something,” John said after a moment. “You know how he thinks on a different level; even at his best it sounds ridiculous to us, but it always turns out brilliant. And he says he feels fine.”

Sally rolled her eyes. “He’d say that if half his brains were dripping out his ears,” she reminded him. Which was unfair, really, since she would do exactly the same.

“True,” John agreed immediately, shrugging. “But we have nothing but some time to lose if he’s wrong, and what if he’s right?”

“I am _right here_ ,” Sherlock said, annoyed, at a volume rather less than he would have liked out of consideration for his headache. He spun dramatically and stalked off. “If you are finished with your reoccurring commentary on everything about me, some of us _do_ like to accomplish actual work when we go out.”

“He’s in a snit with you, isn’t he?” Sally said to John as they jogged after Sherlock, and John sighed.

“I won’t let him have any of the good painkillers,” he explained, gesturing at his head. “He hasn't forgiven me yet.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock threw back coldly, “of course I’ve forgiven you for withholding blessed relief from the unending agony of the headache I received in your presence, which you continue to exacerbate by speaking at loud volumes, at length, to anyone nearby.” Sherlock stopped and waited impatiently at the door for Sally to bring the key. They were being _so painfully slow_. 

“Nevermind then,” John said to Sally, “I’m totally forgiven.”

Sherlock raised his chin and looked down his nose. “I can’t imagine why I would be upset that you seem to think I have the willpower of a small child, and will somehow dive back into a remarkably unpleasant drug addiction simply because your sister happily drowns herself in alcohol at every opportunity.”

Sally snorted. “He’s the soul of compassion, clearly.” 

“Clearly,” John agreed, and Sally unlocked the door while Sherlock tried to ignore the both of them. It was dark, but with automatic lights—as they walked in, everything flickered on. 

“If you see anything that looks even vaguely to your poor, uneducated eyes like an ornamental grass, bag and label a portion of it. I’ll be on the east side of the building,” Sherlock told them, and John made the noise that meant he was about to argue. Sherlock scoffed. “For the last time, there’s _no one here_ —the lights were all off when we got in, and they’re on motion sensors—anyone who could be hiding would need to have been motionless for the last thirty minutes, well before we arrived. It’s perfectly safe.”

John stepped close, gripped his shoulders, and gave him a long, careful look. “Promise me,” he ordered sternly, “that you will not go off on some hare-brained scheme as soon as you figure something out. Promise me that the moment this becomes anything other than grass-clipping that you will come back and get us and we’ll all go.”

“Of course I’ll—“

“Even if you’ll miss the killer if you don’t run off right away. Even if it’s unbelievably interesting and clever and you need to immediately act. Even if I’m in danger. You will come right back here and get me first.”

Sherlock cocked his head. “What possible danger could you be in plucking grass stems in an empty cubicle farm?”

John didn’t move. “ _Promise me_.”

Sherlock considered. “I could just lie to you,” he pointed out. “If you don’t trust me not to manipulate you into going along with things that put me in danger, I don’t see how you could trust me not to lie when I promise not to.”

“If you were going to lie to me,” John countered, “you would have lied when we fought about it.”

“Hm.” Sherlock shrugged, bored. “In any event, we’re only here for samples. Yes, I promise.”

John nodded and stepped back, and Sherlock ducked off into the next room to look for potted plants. Behind him, Sally asked, “What the hell was that?” and John gave a vague reply Sherlock didn’t catch.

He hurried through the first few rooms so he wouldn’t be able to hear them bumbling slowly through their own. They would be desultory, unrushed; it would take them forever. He knew it would, could chart their limping progress in his mind without trying, but he didn’t have to _listen_ to them do it. Sally would likely skip several pots altogether, although John would keep an eye out and catch the ones she missed. They likely wouldn’t finish the first floor by the time he made it to the third.

It was exhausting, really, steering such primitive intellects along into anything resembling actual assistance, but at least John could be counted on to meander in approximately the right direction without Sherlock’s direct supervision. 

He continued visualizing their progress as he went; as he reached the second floor, they were fighting over whether one of the grasses was, indeed, necessary to bag. As he reached the third, they were just doubling back (Sally was terrible at planning search routes) to find the stairs to the second. Once he came closer to the grass he found near the third floor stairwell, though, he stopped thinking about them entirely and focused.

The plant in the most recent hanging pot had clearly been planted fewer than two hours before. As he moved on, the plantings were more and more recent, until he came to one that had been disturbed not twenty minutes ago.

In the next room, _the lights were already on_.

Damn. _Damn_. 

Sherlock considered his options. He could just continue on—he was taking samples, there were samples in the next room—it was hardly his fault if there was a murderer present as well. Clearly he would still be following the promise he made to John. 

Of course, John would be furious, and it was highly likely they’d have another fight, similar to the one they’d recently had over jumping from Bart’s. Especially if Sherlock came to any harm, which, considering he had a head wound, he probably would. They’d both be quietly, helplessly miserable and John would look desperate and wretched again. 

And, arguably, it was decisions like this that sometimes led to horrible choices like the one at Bart’s in the first place.

Sherlock stood, hands full of potting soil, torn with indecision. There was an embarrassment of very, very good reasons not to follow, and the only reason to go on was ‘I want to win, and I want it _right now_.’ It wasn’t a good reason. He _knew_ it wasn’t a good reason. John would be _livid_ if he admitted it was his only reason. Worse, John would be hurt. Disappointed. Clearly, this was an easy decision.

Damn.

Well.

John compromised everything for him, didn’t he? Sherlock could temporarily compromise one small investigation.

 _Damn_.

Sherlock gave a soft sigh, quietly dusted the soil off his hands, turned, and nearly impaled himself on the long, spiked end of a hand weeder. He jerked back and shouted, and the stars that burst in his vision gave the killer ambushing him a chance to brain him with the handle. 

It _really hurt_. 

Normally Sherlock could easily take a single assailant armed with only a gardening tool, regardless of how clever they were. Normally, however, Sherlock was not hindered with a concussion. He fell to his knees almost immediately, the drop and jolt spiking more pain through his head, and the decorator hooked an arm around his neck from behind. She yanked him back as he twisted, pulling him tight against her chest.

“How the hell did you know I was behind you?” she snarled as he scrambled madly, trying to free himself until felt the pronged point of the tool pressed at the corner of his eye and went still. “I was clearly in the other room, the lights were all on—you had no reason to turn around. You were supposed to go in after me.”

Sherlock remained silent. The hand weeder pressed more insistently and he tried to tilt his head away from it, too dazed to do much else.

“How did you know it was me in the first place?” she insisted, “What did I leave behind?”

“Grasses,” he managed hoarsely, and she made an incredulous sound and loosened her hold, slightly. He couldn’t turn enough to see her face, but her voice was eloquent; intelligent, well-educated, bored the way clever, wealthy people could be (the way _he_ could be). Butchering animals was only a little hobby, like the decorating, like the gardening. She was just flipping through a book of pastimes in between murders. 

“You figured out who I was because some grass dusted off my shirt? _Really_?” A frustrated snort. “I was so sure I wasn’t underestimating you, but I managed to anyway.”

“Admittedly, I’m at a bit of a disadvantage at the moment,” Sherlock confessed, trying to slow his breathing. His mind was awash in bright lights and nausea, and apparently he had a bleeding cut on his head _again_. The decorator laughed.

“If it helps, this is _extremely_ inconvenient for me. Your friends heard you and are loudly running up the stairs, so now I need to figure out how to manage a hostage situation without any of us coming out dead. I don’t much fancy your pet killer ripping my throat apart when I’m forced to put out your eye.”

“Hm.” Sherlock swallowed. “I think we’d probably both rather avoid that, yes. Although I’d like to point out the irony of you accusing John of viciousness.”

The designer laughed. “You’re a charmer, Mr Holmes, I could like you if you hadn’t cocked everything up so magnificently.” She’d loosened her arm enough that he could take a deep breath, but the moment he thought to throw her off, she tightened it back up again. “I quite like chatting with you when I’m not pretending to cry.”

Sherlock choked and smiled without humor. “I’m told interacting with me gets wearing after a while, actually,” he croaked.

John and Sally finally clattered in. John had his Browning out and pointed into the room, and Sherlock could see him calculating distances in his head, although it was likely more instinctual than mathematical. The woman was too far from John to run in and bowl over as he had with Wrede; she would stab Sherlock through the eye before he made it halfway there. Too close to Sherlock to shoot; John would be terrified of missing and hitting him instead.

“Watson,” Sally said slowly, keeping her eyes on Sherlock, “we are going to have a very serious talk about illegal firearms as soon as this is over.”

“Dammit Sherlock,” John growled, ignoring her, “I asked you to do _one thing. One bloody thing_. I can’t take you _anywhere_.”

“In my defense,” Sherlock protested weakly, heels scuffling pathetically on the floor, “I was on my way back when I was attacked. And I did shout.” He glanced around him quickly; they’d knocked over the divider holding several potted plants, a few chairs, a desk... “I’m afraid we've made a bit of a mess; if you forgive me this time I promise to put down plastic next time I am ambushed.”

“You and your damn _plastic_ ,” John said hoarsely, “I’d rather you just avoided getting into messes in the first place!”

“I love you,” Sherlock coughed out past the arm tightening around his neck. The pressure was blinding him again. “Doesn’t that make it a bit better?”

“No. Yes. _No_ ,” John managed. 

“Good god, Cindy was right,” the designer said, sounding delighted, “The two of you _are_ just like watching a soap. I could listen to this all day.”

“ _I will bloody swap you_ ,” came Sally’s frustrated voice. “And fuck, Cindy? She’s who you’ve been talking to? Really?”

“Everyone has a family,” the decorator told her, and Sherlock could feel her shrug behind him. “I really need to get going though. I don’t suppose—no, I can see Doctor Watson is ready to empty his gun into my face as soon as possible. Very well, then. This one is clearly too damaged to be much of a threat, but I can’t have you killing me before I have a chance to duck out of London. So here’s my deal: you two jump out the window, and I’ll let him go and be on my way.”

Sherlock’s vision cleared, minutely, and he could see Sally give them a look that clearly said what she thought of that. “I’m still trying to decide if I would piss on Sherlock Holmes if he was on fire. I’m not going to jump out of a building for him.”

“Oh, but Doctor Watson would. And look, he has a gun and you left yours in your car—how convenient for him.” The killer sighed, sounding bored and unconcerned. “It’s only the third floor, and you’ll probably only break your legs. Mr Holmes will be much too concerned for his doctor to chase after me, even if he could after the next blow to his head I plan to give him. I get away, you all stay alive. Everyone is happy.”

“Or John could simply shoot you,” Sherlock pointed out. “He’s quite skilled, and the chances of him missing and harming me are only about ten percent. Of killing me, maybe two percent.”

The arm around his neck tightened again and Sherlock’s air cut off. He struggled, slightly, and heard John’s swift inhale as the metal spike pressed back firmly against his eye socket. “Any chance is too much for him when you’re concerned, Mr Holmes. Didn’t you know that?”

“My chances of injury are much less than his should he jump out the window,” Sherlock gasped, “John, do it. I’m not manipulating, I’m asking. _Please_.”

“Christ, Watson,” the decorator gave Sherlock a little shake, and Sherlock’s vision started to short out entirely, “can’t you pull his leash a bit? Get your bony terrier here to shut up while you think about how reasonable I’m being?”

“Bloody hell, are _you_ ever confused about who’s holding the lead,” Sally laughed.

“Woof,” John agreed, and shot a bullet cleanly through the decorator’s eye. 

Sherlock pitched forward, taking in a deep, gasping breath, sparks blinking back into his vision and bright spots of pain exploding in his skull. John darted to him, frantic.

“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST,” Sally shrieked, leaping away from them, “SERIOUSLY??”

“You practically told me to!” John protested, emptying the Browning the non-violent way and pitching it to the floor before dropping next to Sherlock, touching him gently and checking his head again. “You were fine with it!”

“I thought you were _bluffing_ , you’re veteran but you were a fucking _doctor_ , what the _hell_?”

“He had bad days,” Sherlock managed, looking up at John’s concerned face, and couldn’t help the snicker that escaped. 

“No,” John told him sternly, “do not make me laugh, I just killed a woman, you _almost lost an eye—_ ”

“You _barked_ at a serial killer, you’re telling _me_ to be more serious?” Sherlock asked, incredulous, and John held out for another three seconds before he crumpled over Sherlock, giggling, and soon both of them were laughing and breathless.

“Oh god,” John gasped, “did you see her face?”

“No, because you _blew it across the room_ ,” Sally yelled at them. “You shot a suspect with your illegal firearm in full view of a police officer! _What the hell is wrong with you two_?”

“John doesn’t own an illegal firearm, he must have found it on the way here. No doubt the killer left it on a desk somewhere,” Sherlock managed between giggles.

“ _BULLSHIT_ ,” Sally bellowed.

“Do you think you could be furious with us at a slightly lower volume?” Sherlock asked her. “I do have a head injury.”

***

“No one will be here, John, it’s totally empty, John. Behold my mighty intellect and its ability to believe exactly what it wants to, John.”

“Oh shut up.” Sherlock snapped.

While there had been no way they could have convinced Sally that John had simply found the Browning, they were able to convince her to pretend they had. It had taken some help from Lestrade and a promise that they wouldn’t be her problem anymore— ‘I am not going prematurely grey like you have, Greg, no bloody way,’ — but John had made it out of the proceeding legal mess relatively unscathed. He’d been warned to return for a court date later on, but Sherlock was certain he could convince Mycroft to ensure nothing untoward came of it.

John had taken advantage of his freedom by sitting in Sherlock’s hospital room and ridiculing him incessantly. It was not endearing in the _least_.

“Why would you think I could possibly be wrong, John? It’s not like I was wrong about the last time this happened in exactly the same way. Only an idiot would do that twice, John.”

“I have _extremely painful head trauma_ , and you aren’t _nearly_ as amusing as you think you are,” Sherlock sniffed. “Anyway, if you hadn’t called Sally it would have all gone similarly, except we wouldn’t have had to convince her about your pistol.”

“Let’s split up, John! That never goes wrong ever, John. After all, no one is here! Not like the killer is hanging about upstairs where I plan to wander off all alone. It’s not like every movie ever hasn’t been very clear on what a terrible, terrible idea this is.”

“Shuuuuut uuuuuup,” Sherlock moaned, trying to smother himself with the hospital pillow. “You were right, I was wrong, _shut up_ , why won’t you let me go home?”

John was completely without sympathy. “Because apparently I’m an idiot who worries too much, so I _clearly_ can’t be trusted to keep you under observation for your brand new concussion.” He was stretched out in the hospital chair next to Sherlock’s bed, hands behind his head, and looked absolutely at ease and pleased with the entire world, the bastard. “You’ll just have to stay here overnight.”

“I hate you. You are a pox on my existence,” Sherlock whined, glaring out at him from beneath the pillow. “My biggest mistake in life was inviting you to move in.”

“Oh? That’s a new tune,” John told him breezily, “seeing as just a few hours ago you were announcing to Sally and our latest serial murderer how much you loved me. Also don't forget losing all control of your limbs because of the fantastic blowjobs I give, or how much you enjoyed fucking me into the headboard the other night—“

“Alright, fine, yes, I adore you, _shut up_ ,” Sherlock groaned, “although I haven’t the _slightest_ why, you are clearly the most irritating human being on the face of the earth.”

“Oh, come off it, Anderson must bother you at least a _bit_ more than me,” John pointed out, still grinning. “ _And_ he doesn’t let you get a leg over, like I do.”

Sherlock stared at him in complete, disgusted horror. “I may never be able to sexually function again,” he told John. “You’ve only yourself to blame for your upcoming chastity.”

“We’ll see how long that lasts,” John replied smugly, unconcerned. “Probably as long as the taxi ride home, I’m guessing.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Sherlock begged, and covered his face with the pillow again. “You are making not wanting to have sex with you ever again _extremely easy_.”

“Liar,” John said, and started to whistle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, this is where I need you to tell me what you are interested in reading more of. I'll ask again after the epilogue, but what plot holes do I need to shore up with a sequel? What do you want to see? I'm halfway into a sequel to [Touch](http://archiveofourown.org/works/784512), so I'll probably do that next, but it will just be a short little one chapter thing.
> 
> And John Watson is... (puts on sunglasses) _barking mad_.
> 
> Eh? EH? EEEHHHHHHH???


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay everyone! Putting the epilogue up a little early. :D There's a quote from one of my favorite movies in here; see if you can find it! 
> 
> UPDATE: I'm doing a sequel for this. I lied about another chapter of Touch, you're going to get a sequel chapter sometime today.

“My headache is completely, conclusively, gone,” Sherlock announced three weeks later. 

John raised an eyebrow over his newspaper. “Conclusively?”

“I performed seventeen heavy-metal-style head bangs without pain,” Sherlock explained matter-of-factly, tipping and stirring and mixing the various jars and beakers on the table, “and only sustained dizziness and nausea that could reasonably be expected when completely uninjured.”

John folded over the paper to give him one of his looks. This one said ‘what the hell is wrong with you?’ and Sherlock was very familiar with it. It was, as always, completely unjustified. How else was he supposed to be certain he had healed? It wasn't a surface wound he could simply observe in the mirror. “Please tell me you haven’t been testing your head this way every day, because if you have been, it explains why it took so long to get better.” John paused. “And if you do it every time you get a concussion, it actually explains _so much more_.”

Sherlock ignored him. “This means you may stop fussing over me like an invalid and generally stop being underfoot when I am working.”

John rolled his eyes, unconvinced. “It’s not ‘underfoot’ and ‘fussing’ when I make you stop mixing noxious chemicals and open the window. Just because you already have a brain injury doesn’t mean you should stop worrying about anything that would give you another one.” He leaned back in his chair and shook the paper back open. Sherlock frowned.

“It invalidated the results!” he protested.

John dropped the paper back in his lap. “So does collapsing on top of the experiment,” he pointed out, exasperated. “I’m really starting to warm to this recurring concussion head bang theory, it explains _so much_.”

“I don’t know what I see in you,” Sherlock huffed, turning back to his current (tediously chemically benign) experiment, rather put out. “I have not caused any permanent damage to myself through experimentation today.”

“Maybe not _today_. I’m sharing this one with Greg,” John told him, retrieving his phone and starting to text, “I’m seeing everything in a new light now.”

“Don’t think I don’t notice that you get extra sarcastic and annoying on days I get cross with you,” Sherlock sulked. He stirred his current mixture rather too forcefully and splashed a bit—possibly better then that it was benign, really, although he’d never admit it. “I’ve noticed. It’s not going to train me out of it.”

“Not trying to manipulate you,” John replied, unfazed, finishing off the text with a flourish, “I get annoying because you’re being a twat. Cause and effect. If you fly off the handle and call me a ‘whining, interfering busybody’ when I ask you not to kill yourself, I’m going to be a prick about it later.”

“I had sex with you _just last night_ ,” Sherlock complained. “You should have still been pliant and pleasant and doing whatever I ask you to.”

“Well, you’re a romantic bastard, I’ll give you that,” John said mockingly, turned back to his newspaper, and ignored him.

Sherlock twisted his mouth to the side, frustrated, before dropping his tools to the table, standing abruptly, and turning to glare at John. “You were supposed to have sex with me again when I told you my headache was gone,” he informed him angrily. “But instead you’ve only become more sarcastic.”

John stared at him, as though _Sherlock_ was the one being unreasonable and obstinate. “What?” he asked incredulously, “Was that…was that you trying to _sweet talk_ me?”

Sherlock swirled his dressing gown tighter around himself, turned away, and crossed his arms. “I was _going to_ ,” he grumbled. “I tried needling you into a passionate furor when we argued about the last experiment, but you just got _shirty_ with me. You’re not reacting at all like you’re supposed to.” 

John made a disbelieving sound behind him. “You _just_ accused me of trying to manipulate you not _thirty seconds ago_.” He tossed his paper aside. “Did you think about maybe just saying you want to have sex?”

“Well I just have, and it’s clearly not working, is it?” Sherlock snapped back crossly over his shoulder before stalking away. “I’m going to my room.”

There was silence behind him, then—

“You—“ John snorted, twice, then apparently failed to contain himself and started giggling. Sherlock was _not pleased_. Unfortunately, his chilling glare did nothing to stem his horrible partner’s mirth. 

“Yes, yes, I’m unendingly humorous when I am upset with you,” he said coldly, spine rigid. “Especially when I have made some vague mistake involving the politics of sex, which are needlessly complicated and opaque. How very _amusing_ ”

John snickered, hand over his face, and Sherlock rolled his eyes and waited. “I’m sorry, I know it’s hard,” John gasped. He stood and his giggles slowed, but the huge grin stayed stretched across his face. “I forget it’s even harder when you’re being sincere. Come here.”

“I really am going to put live scorpions in your shoes this time,” Sherlock decided stiffly.

“No you won’t. Come here.” John tugged on his sleeve, cupped the back of his head, and pulled him down to kiss along his jaw. “You mad, brilliant man, just tell me next time.”

“Hm.” Sherlock bent his head, slightly. It felt quite nice. He decided to allow it. 

“Don’t think you can get out of all our arguments by being adorably inept at being a boyfriend,” John murmured, pushing him backwards gently to rest against the plaster in the hall and nibbling at his ear. “It’s going to get old eventually.”

“But not yet,” Sherlock said smugly, and pulled John’s waistband to pop the button open, tugging him closer, then twisting them so he had John against the wall. 

“Mm. Not yet,” John agreed, and shuddered when Sherlock rocked against him. “We haven’t had sex in the kitchen yet; you’ve clearly been trying to tick off every surface in the flat, d’you want to…”

“No,” Sherlock decided, “I want to pin you here and do what I like with you.” John’s breath hissed out in a rush, and Sherlock laced their fingers together against the wall before he bit down, hard, where John’s neck met his shoulder.

“ _Shit_ ,” John managed, but his knees gave slightly and he hardened against Sherlock’s thigh. “I—fuck, ask first next time but _shit_.”

“Fine. Then may I,” Sherlock rumbled, voice low and making John shiver, “bite you again?”

“Nng,” John moaned, arching up helplessly. Sherlock dropped tiny kisses up under his ear, waiting. “Jesus. _Yes_ ,” and Sherlock closed his teeth on John’s neck, and John lost the ability to speak, grinding up against him and letting his head fall back. He was limp, pliant, lovely, but…

“Push back,” Sherlock whispered, and John pressed up against him, which was nice but not what he’d meant. “Your wolf won’t hurt me. I’ve been provoking you for a reason. _Push back_.”

“My what?” John pulled away just enough to look at him, half a smile tugging up one side of his face. “My wolf?”

“You’re not going to do anything I don’t want you to.” Sherlock ground John’s hands against the wall. “I’m not afraid of you. You don’t need to stuff it all down and just accept anything I do. Push back. Bite me, bruise me, _push back_.”

John stilled, eyes narrowing. “If I do,” he said slowly, “promise me you will tell me the moment you aren’t enjoying it.” Sherlock felt a sharp thrill in his gut.

“I won’t have a problem—“

“No.” John pulled his hands free and put them on either side of Sherlock’s face. “Promise me. Say it.”

“I promise,” he breathed, “that I will tell you the moment I am not enjoying something.”

“And you’re sure,” John pressed. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Yes, I’m _sure_ ,” he replied testily, I’ve been trying to antagonize you _all week_.”

“ _I’ve noticed_ ,” John growled, and suddenly Sherlock was up against the opposite wall, knees bent where John had hooked a hand behind them to adjust his height, John’s knee riding up between his to put pressure against his aching erection. John’s teeth were on him, not biting but grazing, closing as a warning when he tried to move away. Sherlock took a moment, glorying in it all before hooking his ankle behind John’s and shoving him backwards, following him down to straddle his waist on the floor.

Yes.

This.

John gripped him by the collar and yanked him down into a rough kiss, bucked his hips up into the space separating them, and pressed his palm into Sherlock’s elbow. Sherlock’s arm had been braced against the floor to keep him up, and it folded, dropping him suddenly forward. John immediately flipped them both, pressed himself hard between Sherlock’s legs, and slid forward in a lazy, hard thrust that slid Sherlock’s back along the floor. 

Sherlock struggled and they wrestled, knocking knees and elbows on the floorboards, but John somehow pinned Sherlock’s arms with one hand and trailed the other one down to open Sherlock’s trousers and slip inside. Sherlock’s prick was _very_ pleased, and it jumped slightly; Sherlock let out all his breath at once, seeing stars. John stroked his palm against him, legs interspersed between Sherlock’s and pressing his already leaking cock against his hip. Sherlock could only gasp and pant, head thrown back and mind blank.

“Moan for me,” John growled, and Sherlock immediately complied, letting out noises that would be frankly _embarrassing_ later on. He tilted up to meet John’s thrusts, senseless, and licked up his jaw and into his mouth.

He tried to roll them so he was on top, but John kept up the momentum and swung him back down again. “John,” he panted, writhing, and John shoved him roughly against the floor. Sherlock _keened_ , breath stuttering. “John, _please_.” 

He knew he hadn’t sounded anything but mind-blown and wrecked, but John eased back just in case. “Please what?” he asked softly, letting up on his hands and letting go. Not stopping altogether, but not continuing either.

“Don’t _stop_ ,” Sherlock clarified fervently, gripping John’s hips hard enough to bruise and dragging them back against his, “please _don’t stop_. God, please, please _don’t stop_.” 

John gave him a toothy grin, and Sherlock reached up and yanked him back down, teeth at his collar and fingertips sliding down his sides, and it was _amazing_. They both managed to work a hand down each other’s pants, trousers rucked low on their hips, breath hitching in fevered gasps as they rocked against each other. John was sighing Sherlock’s name, over and over, gaining volume, until finally he spasmed, wet and warm, into Sherlock’s fist with a muffled shout, teeth buried in his shoulder. Sherlock groaned, shuddered, and came with him.

Perfect,

They lay there in the hallway for a bit, winded, bruised, sticky and aching and tangled up in their trousers and each other.

After a moment, John propped himself up on an elbow and grinned down at him.

“I want to do that again,” he said, eyes feral, “but this time I want to rip your clothes off first.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock breathed, and reached for him. “ _Please_.”

***

Sherlock climbed into John’s bed later that night with absolutely no hesitation whatsoever.

It wasn’t that he _felt_ no hesitation. Sherlock had slept there before, but it was always after some form of extensive, exhausting, carnal gymnastics. Sherlock was not entirely certain of his welcome in a non-sexual context; on the one hand, they lounged about the flat around and on top of each other all the time now, and they _were_ sleeping together euphemistically quite a bit. On the other hand, John had a long history of being very clear about boundaries with his belongings, especially if they were in his room (regardless of how often Sherlock ignored him).

So when he slid in next to John, he allowed no uncertainty to show. Visible hesitation or guilt were the quickest way to communicate that you were doing something you shouldn’t be, and made people question your actions when ordinarily they wouldn’t. Do it quickly and surely, certain of your right to be there, and even people who knew better allowed it. 

John barely woke up; he sighed and rolled over, making room, but then twisted to curl up against him. He sleepily draped an arm over Sherlock’s waist, then tucked his face up against his curls, huffed, and went still again. 

John’s breath ruffled his hair and brushed over his face. A warm sense of well-being drifted through Sherlock for, empirically, no reason whatsoever, and he felt his lips curl up into a smile of their own volition.

“…And in some perfumes is there more delight, than in the breath that from my mistress reeks,” he murmured softly, tucking John’s head under his chin and toying idly with his hair. 

John was apparently not entirely asleep. “Are you complaining about my breath?” he muttered, not opening his eyes. “Did you just wake me up at three in the morning to quote the sonnet where Shakespeare just talks about how _gross_ his girlfriend is?”

Sherlock made a noise of agreement. “But he does quite like her anyway,” he defended.

John snorted. “It’s your own fault for coming to bed so late; if you go to sleep at a sane hour, like I do, the bacteria don't have time to take on the toothpaste and I just smell of mint instead. Something to consider.” He tilted his head to look at Sherlock with drowsy eyes. “You could just come to bed with me instead of sneaking in when you hope I’m too tired to kick you out. I’m not going to kick you out.”

“I never thought you would,” Sherlock bluffed, burrowed in closer, and went to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's 'romantic bastard' line if from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. If you like the banter I write, you will love theirs! Sherlock quoted from [William Shakespeare's Sonnet 130](http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15557)
> 
> UPDATE: Writing a sequel. Calling it Torn Stitches. Not gonna do another Touch chapter after all. I'm a huge liar.
> 
> Finally, THANK YOU for everyone who has been leaving comments, kudos, or even just clicking in to look at this story; the last I looked, I'm in the top 2.5% of all Sherlock fics on ao3 by kudos, and the top 4% by hits; that's AMAZING and all thanks to you guys! You are FANTASTIC, and it makes me so excited to have so many people enjoy my work and enormously thankful that you show me such an outpouring of kindness and appreciation. I get the BIGGEST ego boost writing this, you have no idea. THANK YOU! :D


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